Beneath That Metal Exterior
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: Prime. Written in response to SargesGrl12's "Bully." As it turns out, Vince isn't one to ignore a blow to his pride. As the delinquent continues to give Rafael and his friends hell, Ratchet takes it upon himself to fix their problems by any means necessary.
1. Déjà Vu

**Title**: Beneath That Metal Exterior  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Prime  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Humor/Family (and Hurt/Comfort)  
><strong>Pairings<strong>: No outright pairings are mentioned, although I will drop in hints of innuendo. How you guys interpret that is entirely up to you.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: T for mild language.

**Summary**: Set the day directly after "Bully." The following chapters will deal with Ratchet's relationship between himself and the kids as he reluctantly becomes involved with sorting out their dilemmas, particularly those of one Rafael Esquivel. (You can decide for yourself which episode this story is set after, as the plot is compliant with mostly all of them.)

A special thank you to SargesGrl12 for writing her touching contribution to the TF:P fandom, "Bully." I hope that my response story does her work justice. Check it out when you get the chance; otherwise, it might be a bit difficult to keep up with this fanfiction.

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><p>Chapter One: <strong>Déjà Vu<strong>

"…and don't forget, for tomorrow's finals you'll need to bring a calculator, number two pencil, eraser…"

For once unable to concentrate, Rafael allowed his apprehensive thoughts—and gaze—to trail toward the window. Rain was pounding a steady bruise into the pavement, soaking everything as far as the eye could see. Already large puddles were expanding on the asphalt outside and sliding toward storm drains embedded in the road. Muddy expanses of grass would no doubt be greeted with grumbling from the students who would have to slosh through inch-deep puddles to get home. Restlessly the short brown-haired boy fidgeted in his desk, adjusting his glasses out of an idiosyncratic tendency.

It wasn't the storm that was making him so nervous.

A chime from the clock above the classroom door alerted Rafael to the impending end of school. Another two minutes until he would shuffle outside, lost in the surge of his classmates' stampede for freedom. Another two minutes until the unfamiliar presence of an ambulance would come into view, swinging the passenger seat's door open.

While the bespectacled boy was deeply grateful to Ratchet's intervention the day before, he was still put-off by the medic's uncharacteristic insistence on picking him up after school. Normally Rafael was greeted by his Autobot guardian Bumblebee, the Camaro's sleek yellow and black-striped paintjob cruising along the sidewalk with warm beeps and clicks of welcome.

To have his routine abruptly thrown out the window was extremely…well, nerve-racking, to say the least.

Not that he wasn't heartened by Ratchet's offer. It was just so awkward. Whereas Bumblebee was easy-going and enthusiastic to talk about Rafael's interests (videogames, technology―the usual flair), Ratchet's untouchable aura and imminent disdain for humans made it difficult to hold any sort of conversation. Just the idea alone of being chauffeured by the Autobots' medic had his gut in a roiling mass.

Lost in his thoughts, he nibbled at the eraser of his pencil and blankly watched his teacher scrawl something on the blackboard.

A sudden motion out of the corner of his eye caught Rafael's undivided attention. Several rows back Vince lounged in his chair, feet unperturbedly thrown atop his desk. To the untrained eye, the gesture was innocent enough, but Rafael knew better. Deep dislike glittered in the redhead's eyes, an unspoken promise to get even for the humiliating events of the day before. Apparently Ratchet's attempt to spook the bully had only yielded a new level of humiliation and revenge. Unconsciously he squirmed in his seat, silently pleading for the bell to ring just so he could bolt to safety. Reluctant as he was to grace the grouchy medic with his presence, if given the choice between the medic and the jerk, he'd pick the medic every time.

"…expect the best out of all you tomorrow. Mr. Esquivel, are you listening?"

Startled by the sudden use of his name, Rafael allowed his pencil to clatter to the floor beneath him, along with a few sheets of paper disturbed by the jerking motion. Babbling an incoherent stream of apologies, the boy bent over to hastily scoop up his belongings, reddening in response to the other kids' laughter. Before Rafael could properly explain himself, however, the bell loudly rang and heralded the end of the school day.

Around him chairs scraped against the tiled floor as his peers charged for the exit. Still trembling with embarrassment and anxiety, Rafael managed to unceremoniously cram the pages into his backpack. There was quite a large amount of space in his bag now, thanks to the conspicuous absence of his labtop.

_Saved by the bell_, Rafael noted with grim amusement. Under the disappointed scowl of his teacher he scampered from the room, head ducked down to hide his uneasy expression.

Because of his late departure from the class, he had avoided the traffic jam of noisy teenagers. However, the rather uneasy silence of the empty halls provided more foreboding than it did comfort. Clutching at the straps slung over his shoulders, Rafael trekked past the lockers as quickly and calmly as his trembling legs would allow.

It went without saying that he jumped badly when a menacing pressure was applied to his shoulder, halting his steps. "Where do you think you're going, you little rat?"

Icy adrenaline gushed through Rafael's veins, sending his body temperature plummeting. He had to choke back his fear as Vince's foul breath buffeted his ears. "Not runnin' off, are you?"

Swallowing the bulge in his throat, Rafael jerked around and wrenched himself free of the much taller boy's grip. "Back off, Vince," he growled, feeling less brave than he actually sounded. "You can't—"

"Can't what?" snapped the redhead as he took a step nearer and leered. "Pummel you until you're a bloody smear on my boots, whimpering for me to stop?" With an unpleasant laugh he stooped forward and gripped Rafael by the shirt collar, bodily lifting him an impressive five inches off the ground. He growled softly, "If I recall, there aren't any parking places for cars inside the school. My lucky day."

Helplessly Rafael flailed, unable to do more than squirm midair. The younger boy opened his mouth in a clear attempt to call for help, only to have his cries muted as Vince brusquely slammed his palm across his mouth.

Beneath Vince's sweaty hand he whimpered as the redhead triumphantly crowed, "When I'm through with you, you're gonna need that ambulance." Evidently on some sort of roll, the teenager gleefully tacked on, "See, I figured that since you're pals with that Darby punk, you asked his folks to pull off that little stunt yesterday. I hear his mom's a nurse. And guess what?" Bared teeth were thrust into Rafael's stricken face as Vince all but purred his delight. "I put two and two together."

As if waiting for a response, Vince shifted his hand's position minutely, allowing Rafael to both gasp for air and answer.

"Really?" He knew what he was about to utter was tantamount to suicide, but under pressure he couldn't help but feel goaded. "You know what two plus two is? Last I heard, you were flunking Algebra."

That smart remark earned him a solid fist to the face that resounded with an earsplitting_ crack_. Immobile as he was, Rafael could do nothing more than recoil against the blow and utter a muffled scream beneath Vince's quickly readjusted palm. Already the boy could feel a livid bruise blossoming along his jawline, joining the bruise near his nostrils. Warm, metallic, sticky blood trickled down his face in rivulets. Still seething, the larger teenager clenched more tightly against his shirt collar. He was obviously unbothered by the crimson spatter on the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"Nerd," Vince snarled, rearing his arm back and briefly unmuting Rafael once more, "you'll regret that dearly."

* * *

><p>Confined to his alt mode, Ratchet resorted to the only means to conveying his frustration by revving his engine. Loudly.<p>

Impatience flared up inside him, leaving the medic feeling a bit drained and exasperated. Although he had volunteered to pick up the boy, he couldn't help but regard his offer as a waste of time. Steadily rain thrummed against the hood of his alt mode, sending droplets scattering across his red-and-white frame. While normally unbothered by trivial Earth weather, twenty minutes of waiting eventually gave way to annoyance. Suddenly the desire to see that punk's stricken expression had lost its appeal.

It didn't help that Bumblebee kept comming him what felt like _every other astrosecond_. Finally the medic had caved and silenced his transmitter, rendering Bumblebee's insistent calling into blissful silence. It would be worth a lecture from Optimus later to not have to endure the scout's constant pestering.

Granted, Ratchet could understand Bumblebee's concern, as he was beginning to share it.

_Twenty minutes_, he snorted to himself, his wheels gyrating briefly and sending up a wave of muddy water. _What could possibly be taking the boy so long_? He knew that Rafael's final exams were approaching, and he would want to obsessively prep himself by any means necessary. However, that rational thought didn't stop his thoughts from leaning toward one other possible scenario, one that made his wheels spin all the harder.

Worry crept through his chassis like rust, leaving the medic in a brief internal debate. If by some odds that human delinquent had injured Rafael, then the boy would be unable to call for help, given the state of his—Ratchet internally winced—_wounds_. Due to his undercover status, however, Ratchet knew he was unable to physically enter the human building and search for his temporary charge. Optimus was fickle about that specific guideline, and would have his aft mounted on a wall for even _considering _breaking that rule. An ambulance suddenly careening down the corridors with its sirens wailing would definitely fall under the category of "not incognito."

Quite frankly, Ratchet wasn't in the mood to send Jasper, Nevada, into a state of uproar at the boy's expense. He could already see the five o'clock news, a bald fleshling male reading his report with a flawless poker-face: "Earlier this afternoon, eyewitnesses claimed that a runaway, unmarked ambulance was tearing apart Jasper High. Authorities still don't know why the hospital chose to send an emergency vehicle to the school, although government personnel are still investigating this so-called 'attack.' In other news…"

Another scathing snort escaped his vocals.

Just what he needed. Human conspiracy theories and a manhunt.

Static unexpectedly laced through his audios with a frantically pinging message. Fighting back an indignant huff, ruthlessly Ratchet onlined his transmitter and all but spat, _Bumblebee, for the last time, I'm sure the boy is_—

"Uh, Doc?" A tentative squeak answered from the other end. Judging by the rather poor transmission signal from the cell phone and the feminine voice that spoke, Ratchet safely surmised who the caller was.

Reverting to a similar dial transmission that synced up with the phone's, he grunted in reply, "Miko. Why are you calling?" A pause, and he indignantly barked, "And how did you get this number?"

Almost nonchalantly Miko answered, "Bulkhead showed me how to contact you. Apparently Autobots are walking satellite dishes, because if you press a few buttons, human phones can get through to the other line."

Had Ratchet been in his bipedal form, he would have quirked a brow and rolled his optics. "Remind me to reintroduce Bulkhead to my wrench later," he growled. Stifling a sigh, he snapped through the transmission, "What is so important, Miko? I'm waiting for Rafael, and am rather preoccupied."

"That's just it." Normally the human girl's tone contained an air of haughty confidence. Now concern riddled Miko's voice, making her sound disturbingly like a female version of Jack. "I tried calling him a few minutes ago, and he isn't responding. You know Raf, he's practically glued to his tech." More pressingly, she said, "You gotta find him, Doc! I think Bumblebee's gonna blow a fuse or something if you don't—"

"Alright," snapped Ratchet impatiently across the line. "I'll search for him. Tell Bumblebee to stop dragging his pedes across the floor unless he wants to spend the next two hours buffing out skid marks." With that said, he immediately terminated their connection, sending the line into white noise.

Once more the heavy sentiment of worry settled across his frame. Headlights flashing on, the ambulance roved his wheels and sped down the street. Mucky rainwater grazed his axles as another wave was launched into the air. As Ratchet drove around the corner toward the back end of the building, alarming thoughts raced through his processor, each more burdening than the next. _You just sat there and waited for him to trot along! Of course something was the matter if he didn't show up for twenty minutes, you fragging idiot! How daft would a 'bot have to be to ignore the obvious?_

Mentally rebuking himself solved nothing. Instantly the gauge housing his alt mode's speedometer flickered dangerously toward thirty-five. Ignoring the fact that he was in a fifteen mile zone, the ambulance ominously sped toward the rear doors of the school, shuddering to an unsteady stop mere feet from the entrance.

Engine rumbling ominously, Ratchet did a brief scan that consumed no more than a klik of time to complete. A second scan told him that there were no recording devices nearby. Certain that no pesky humans were within the immediate vicinity, he chanced reverting back to his bipedal form. Diagnostic results lining the inside of his HUD alerted him to the presence of several fleshlings of varying ages and heights inside the school. Teachers and students, the medic gathered, his faceplates furrowing into a pensive expression. If he locked onto individual heat signatures, there was a distinct chance that he could move about the school and avoid being spotted…

It was a risk that he would unfortunately have to take.

Through a stream of Cybertronian curses Ratchet crouched, wishing furtively that for once in his eons-long life that he was Arcee's height. Call it coincidence or the work of Primus, he was able to squeeze through the double doors and enter the back end of the school. While the ceiling was somewhat elevated, it did little to compensate for just how slagging _tall_ he was. Forced into an awkward crouch, Ratchet began to painstakingly navigate the hallways, all the while grumbling about his rotten luck.

_When I find that child_, he vowed, ducking back around a corner when he heard a nearby classroom door click, _I'll make him endure tenfold of everything I'm going through to find his sorry_—

That particular train of thought came to a standstill, as did his own movements when a warning ping rang across his neural net. Focusing on the alert, Ratchet sifted through the information feed and recognized the heat signature as Rafael's. Diagnostic reports gave him a rough estimate of the boy's location, about thirty-six feet west toward a large room that he remembered Jack calling a "gym." The description matched, anyway; the suspended rings that the children were so fond of throwing those obnoxious balls through were facing each other across a vacant court. Stands and risers ringed part of the room; he could just see the inside of the gymnasium through the glass panels on several doors.

Grumbling under his breath, the white and red mech continued to stiffly walk in that direction, ignoring the nagging voice in his head that was reminding him of the other part of the diagnostic report: that Rafael's vitals were in semi-critical condition.

He almost uttered a silent _Thank you_ to Primus for not having his comrades present to see him wedge himself through yet another human door. Bulkhead would have never let him live that down. Once again he was forced to duck and half shove, half haul his too-wide chassis through the pathetically small doorframe. It required herculean effort to not snipe aloud at the bitter unfairness of it all. Ignoring the threatening creak from the protesting metal frames, Ratchet managed to propel himself into the gym, unscathed.

Well, _almost_ unscathed.

While the scrapes he'd left along the doorframe were minimal, Ratchet was disgruntled to note that he had scratched himself. Many tiny flakes of paint littered along the floor were evidence of that. He glared at the gym doors as if they had verbally offended him. "Wretched human building."

Too consumed with his desperate search, Ratchet didn't bother to cover his tracks and clear away the paint flecks. Able to stand at his full height in the more vaulted room, the medic whipped around, sending out electrical scans for signs of organic life. Almost instantly the reports told Ratchet that Rafael was close at servo. Just beyond another door in a closed room, a sign bolted across it that read _Boys' Locker Room_.

Holding back another sigh—more worried than aggravated this time—the mech grabbed at the handle and turned it.

The first thing that greeted him was an overwhelming _smell_.

Sweat, mold, various human body odors, urine, cheap cologne—the odor was so powerful that Ratchet had to override the coding in his neural net and offline every olfactory sensor he possessed. _Primus_, he knew humans were putrid, but this was an entirely new level of disgusting. This place was a biohazard, a breeding ground for germs! The armor plating around his mouth curled as he bit back a gag reflex and vented sharply. Even though Optimus strongly encouraged interaction between their races (namely the kids and his comrades), this was a part of the "intermingling" that he certainly could have done without.

He swore to himself that the smell would permanently be scarred into his memory log for as long as he lived.

What drew him out of his one-sided rant was a quiet moan. Quickly Ratchet homed in on the sound and forced himself through the door, oblivious to the scrape marks he left in its frame as he shoved himself into the cramped room.

Again the wounded noise surfaced behind a row of lockers blocking his view. Now reduced to an almost scuttling gait, the white and red mech inched along its perimeter, moving out from behind the row of lockers and into the aisle.

He wished he hadn't.

Rafael was huddled beneath a wooden bench, several nasty scrapes lining his arms, legs, and face. Each breath was rapid and shallow, drawing a raspy huff from the semi-conscious child. The boy's brown vest, sleeved undershirt, and baggy pants were tattered and torn in several spots, revealing a few bare patches of skin. Blood had pooled around his limbs where he had been viciously attacked, leaving only several areas of skin unharmed. Automatically the medic's protocols took over, transmitting a data feed to his HUD as Ratchet numbly stood and watched. The reports were sending him basic vital stats: he wasn't in any sort of mortal jeopardy and hadn't lost severe levels of body fluid, thought the information was far from comforting.

After several tense kliks of uncertain staring, Ratchet kicked himself into gear. Crouching into a more comfortable stance, he gathered the human child in his hands, carefully trying to keep his expression blank. Blood dribbled along the medic's fingers as he cradled the boy close to his spark chamber, optics narrowing.

Yes, the children more often than not annoyed the frag out of him. Yes, they were always under his feet, be it at the base or on the battlefield. Yes, they gave him a processor ache.

But the suddenly broken form of the youngest human in their ramshackle lot left Ratchet gritting his denta until he could taste metal scrapings inside his mouth.

Had Rafael been conscious, Ratchet wouldn't have dared say anything, for fear of injuring his own pride. Now, without having to worry about the youngling overhearing him, he vented a soft sigh and uttered an uncharacteristic, "I'm sorry."

Amidst the confusing whir of data feed and emotions he managed to silently turn, intent on doing everything in his power to set things right.


	2. Minor Repairs

**Author's Note**: I realized that I made a few crucial mistakes that were in dire need of being corrected. Firstly, this fanfiction is roughly set in between the episodes _Crisscross_ and _One Shall Rise_, namely due to the fact that in later chapters June Darby appears and is fully aware of the Autobots' presence. This story is also focused on the events before _One Shall Rise_ because I wanted to avoid the apocalyptic nature of the recent episode.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Transformers or any of its characters/content. If I did, then Bulkhead would have walked in on a _very_ interesting scene at the end of _Scrapheap_.

**Warnings**: There are spoilers for certain episodes, I think; at this point in time, I'm not 100% certain. Consider yourselves warned.

**Summary**: Rafael says a little too much, and Ratchet listens a bit _too_ well.

* * *

><p>Chapter Two: <strong>Minor Repairs<strong>

Upon stumbling back into consciousness, the first thing Rafael realized was that he _ached_.

His limbs protested when he tried to adjust his position and sit up. Underneath him was something firm and metallic, a cold platform pressed firmly against his backside.

His _unclothed_ backside, the brown-haired youth noted with a suppressed groan.

Great.

Not bothering to open his eyes, Rafael opted to cull through his memories and try to remember just what the hell had happened. While the direct contact of skin and cool steel amplified his sense of pain, the boy vaguely realized that the pressure around his midriff was courtesy of gauze bundled over some form of abrasion. Another restless shift drew from his pursed lips a whimper of pain, dull and unwilling to be uttered aloud than he could help it. Suddenly the notion of reliving his trauma was more of a burden than an open invitation. After all, he didn't know where he was, or more importantly, _who_ had found him.

Raw memories came rushing back anyway, nagging him in earnest and honestly, Rafael wanted nothing more than to demur their intrusion and shunt them aside. Like a relentless surge, however, they flooded his mind, bringing with them jarring images of blood, mirthless laughter, and an avid desire for the pain to just _end_.

Supressing a shiver of intermingled distress and humiliation, Rafael exhaled raggedly. Everywhere along his arms and legs he could feel scratches and cuts ranging in severity. Licking his lips earned him a taste of dried blood, presumably from the split along the lower rim of his mouth.

He was still dressed from the waist down, likewise donning bandages over the areas that had shrieked their protests when he'd tried to move. Judging from the lack of weight along the bridge of his nose, his glasses had been removed, presumably still abandoned in the locker room where Vince had brutally beat the snot out of him.

Rather than try and sit up he continued leaning back with his eyes closed. To be honest, he really didn't want to deal with this right now.

"Hey, Docbot!"

Too bad that no one ever actually considered what he wanted in the grand scheme of things.

The too-loud easily recognizable voice of _one Miko_ was all but screaming in his ears. "The computer says Raf's coming to!"

"He's waking up?" That was definitely Jack's voice, low and earnest.

"Quiet!" The owner of the authoritative tone was more hushed than his friends, but still too utterly loud for Rafael's hypersensitive body to handle. Into the space surrounding Rafael the voice continued, gruff yet politely concerned: "Rafael, can you hear me?"

For an answer Rafael moaned quietly and squinted his eyelids harder.

"He's awake," Miko chirped. Warm hands wandered across his shoulders, urging him to haul himself into a sitting position. Complying wasn't so much a choice as it was a reaction to her surprisingly strong touch. Muttering unintelligible words under his breath, Rafael reached out blindly, startled when his groping hands brushed against glass specs.

"Looking for something?" teased Jack, his face sharpening into focus once Rafael had clumsily perched his glasses upon his face.

Almost a second later he was shoved aside, Jack's face replaced with Miko's trademark grin. "Welcome back."

Several heartbeats of uncomfortable silence resounded in the wake of her words as Rafael groggily took in his surroundings. The familiar sight of sickbay, situated slightly away from the massive monitors that composed the predominant part of the Autobots' headquarters. All too abruptly it dawned on the twelve-year-old that he was bundled onto a human-sized berth, a white bedsheet drawn only partially around his half-clothed body. Color flooded Rafael's cheeks as he hastily snatched the blanket and drew it tightly around himself.

Jack and Miko merely grinned, the former's slightly forced.

Perhaps it was his sluggish brain still trying to process everything, but the sudden absence of one yellow and black-striped scout caused Rafael to panic. "Bumblebee…?"

"On perimeter patrol, with Optimus, Arcee, and Bulkhead," Ratchetc clarified, turning his back to Rafael as he wandered toward a smaller screen brimming with data. Flatly he commented, "I ground bridged him to their coordinates when he wouldn't stop _hovering_."

That last word carried a trace of irritation.

Fleetingly a smile tugged at the corner of Rafael's lips, all too soon fading when a mere tilt of his chin sent minor spasms down his back. Simultaneously Jack and Miko darted closer, the latter giving him a one-armed squeeze around his shoulders that did nothing to alleviate the pain.

Quite the contrary, actually.

Muttering vehemently, Ratchet whipped around and made a shooing gesture at the two humans congregated around Rafael. "Both of you, give him some space! Clinging to him like barnacles won't do him any favors."

With a halfhearted smile that he knew bore more resemblance to a grimace, Rafael quickly reassured, "I-It's okay, Ratchet, I—"

"'I' what?" Ratchet interrupted, turning to grace him with his oh-so loving glare. Both Miko and Jack stepped away several feet to give the white and orange mech a respectful (read: safe) distance as he crouched at his level. "Tell me, what does a human _youngling_ know about the sophisticated physiological and chemical biology of the body?"

Miko raised a hand, not unlike a bullfighter raising a red banner for the sole purpose of goading the beast in front of a screaming crowd. Sure enough Ratchet zeroed in on her, chevron-for-horns and all. The screaming crowd (Jack and Rafael) hushed in anticipation of the verbal repertoire. It went something like this:

"So the alien from the planet made of metal thinks he knows more about humans than the actual human?"

Miko: 1, Ratchet: 0.

Incredulity, then anger, flashed across his twitching faceplates. Ratchet spared her a condescending glare that could blister if he felt inclined. "I am fairly competent enough to administer basic first aid where need be," he answered, acid dripping off of each word. "Cybertronian or not, it doesn't take much to realize that you need to stem the flow of blood. Even lugnuts like _Bulkhead_ would know well enough how to apply fundamental medical techniques. Now if you're quite done," he snapped, with a sudden switch in conversation to him, "you ought to know that while no irreparable damage was sustained, you do have a fractured wrist."

Rather abruptly Rafael was reminded of the events from earlier today; God knew how many hours ago that had been. Cringing, he withdrew his throbbing left arm from beneath the blanket and gave it a sullen-cum-accusing look.

Taking the silence as a go-ahead to continue, the medic added, "I can assume that the recovery will require about three weeks, maybe four, if the Internet is anything to go by."

"Because the Internet and Google rankings are more reliable than a PhD," Miko pointed out. Jack deigned to facepalm rather than comment.

This time the medic's baleful glare remained fixed on Rafael, though by tone it sounded like he was addressing her instead. "This means minimal physical activity. As in I expect to leave you here and find you in the same exact spot when I return. As in _do not do anything_ that Miko deems a good idea."

Miko: 1, Ratchet: 1.

Venting a heavy sigh, he stood up and crossed his arms across his chest, staunchly ignoring Miko's pursed-lip scowl. "Blood loss wasn't too heavy. With bed rest you should make a full recovery. Thank Primus for that," he muttered, sarcasm lacing his words. "Soon you'll be healthy enough to start sneaking off base and putting yourself in danger again. _Joy_."

"Not that it matters," Jack reasoned, with a sort of morbid humor. "The giant gun-toting robots with heat-seeking missiles and target-lock have less success with hurting us than other humans do."

"I dunno," Miko smirked, strolling up to Ratchet and giving him a deliberate pat on the foot, much to his distaste. "I'd say that having your own personal robot to watch your back (and watch where they step) does wonders for increasing your likelihood of not getting killed. Without these guys"—pat, pat—"we'd be running on dumb luck and caffeine alone."

_Without these guys we'd be running on dumb luck._

Well, didn't that just sum up how useless he felt right now.

Deep in his chest an overwhelming, sinking feeling started to emerge. He'd felt it before, most noticeably their first time on the _Nemesis_, when they'd literally been caught between carnage and laser fire coming from all sides. Above the deathlike slowness of time and the muted roaring in his ears, he recalled feeling abject helplessness. How much of a burden he'd been to the Autobots not only fighting for their lives, but the kids' as well. How utterly useless he was in combat, where the Autobots were the most handicapped in terms of numbers and firepower.

For every success he won them on the technological frontier it seemed that there were two more drawbacks waiting to happen, two more opportunities for the enemy to use the humans' vulnerability and mortal limits to their advantage. More and more often as of late he wondered how much more he needed Bumblebee than Bumblebee needed _him_.

Today he'd finally gotten his answer.

It hurt to swallow.

Perhaps noticing the way Rafael had begun to tense, Jack quickly sidestepped toward him and ruffled his hair. "Hey," he soothed, "it's cool. What happened wasn't your fault."

"Yeah," Miko chipped in. "Everyone knows that Vince is a creep. Just think: soon school will be out for the both of us, and you won't have to see him anymore. Lucky you, Jack," she added, sparing her friend a peevish stare, "you got out a few days earlier than us."

Jack rolled his eyes, coupling the motion with a cool smile that was borderline smug. "What can I say? Upperclassmen privilege."

Engaged as she was in her banter with Jack, Miko didn't notice that Rafael's quivering had doubled, his eyes squinted tightly behind his partially cracked glasses. If Ratchet noticed then he chose not to comment.

"—when summer break finally rolls around," Jack finished. Rafael jerked at the renewed touch to his shoulder shyly jutting out from beneath the sheets. Not meeting Jack's gaze, Rafael shook, upper lip trembling as the teenage boy queried, "Do you think we should call your parents and let them know?"

"N-No," he choked out, his fingers—still clenched around the cover's fringes—tightening to the point of blanching. "I'll be fine. S'long as I don't say anything, they won't notice."

"_What?_" The indignant trill came from Miko, her arms thrown into the air in a gesture that was more overdramatic than it was sincere. Looming slightly over Rafael, the girl demanded, "You're not gonna tell your parents that you have _a broken wrist_?"

Unnoticed by the three of them Ratchet had returned to the monitor, his heavily armored backside facing them.

An indifferent shrug was Rafael's reply. "Mom and Dad are always busy with my brothers and sisters, so a lot of little things tend to get overlooked."

"Rafael"—Jack's grip on his shoulder tightened—"getting a broken wrist isn't 'a little thing.'"

Rafael gave a harsh laugh that was anything_ but_ amused. Taken aback, Jack's hold on Rafael's shoulder slackened and he jerked away. "Well maybe it is a little thing," the bespectacled kid retorted, biting sarcasm intertwined with the grief and frustration in his tone. "I mean, it happens so often, doesn't it? Why should they bat an eyelash every time I come home with some bruise or cut?"

Miko's brow arched high enough for her eyebrows to be in danger of vanishing behind her bangs. "What are you talking abou—"

"I hate it!" The unexpected shout made Miko jump. Face contorted with uncharacteristic resentment, Rafael wailed, "I hate being so puny! I hate that I have to depend on my friends for _everything!_"

"I don't understand," stammered Jack. "What's wrong?"

Tears began to condense at the corner of his glasses. Still breathing hard, Rafael snapped, "No, you don't understand!" At the callous comment Jack flinched. "I can't stand up to people like Vince. I'm useless."

Her brilliant gaze steady, Miko fired back, "That's stupid, Raf! You're not useless. Without you, we wouldn't be able to do have the technical stuff that we do—"

"Useless," repeated Rafael stubbornly, tears streaming relentlessly now down his cheeks. Pent-up sobs wracked his body, causing him to double over, shoulders hunched. "You said it yourself; without the Autobots protecting us we'd be d-dead by now. They do so much for us, but we can't do anything in return!" That last word was spat out with an unrivaled savagery. For the first time in twelve years, every bitter feeling he had worked to dam behind his calm demeanor was thundering loose: fear, anger, desperation to prove his worth, desire to do _more_ for his friends.

Helplessly Miko and Jack watched him, neither edging closer nor farther from him. Without knowing the right words to comfort him they were powerless to do more than listen.

Never letting his optics leave the monitor, Ratchet still gazed in complete neutrality at the computer terminal. The medic's expression was unreadable with his back to the kids.

Unable to stop now that he had started, Rafael choked out, "I a-always feel like a deadweight, a _burden_. Some days," he gulped, "I just can't help but think, 'If I can't help myself against Vince, then how am I going to h-help the Autobots?'"

Silence greeted him as Rafael's fit of sobbing receded into pathetic sniffles. He was suddenly aware of the dampness on his face and he tried to wipe his nose along his bare arm. He was rewarded with a fresh coating of snot on his skin, yet another aggravation on the long list now piling up for the day.

He closed his eyes and waited for the criticism to start.

Instead, soft tissue paper was dabbed along the rim of his eyes, and when the boy dared a cautious glance upward, both of his friends were consolingly pressed around him. Somewhere from her person Miko had produced a tissue and was batting away the last remnants of his tears. Jack, meanwhile, had slung a gangly arm around his shoulders, vainly trying to comfort him without upsetting the injuries.

Another deep blush lit up his face, this time brought on by the fit he had just put on public display. "I'm sorry," Rafael rasped, shuddering. "I didn't mean to say those things…"

"It's cool," mumbled Jack, sounding awkward and embarrassed, too.

Thank Miko's good timing, she chose to redirect the conversation and spare him the effort of coming up with an explanation: "You could always make it up by racing against me on Mario Kart Wii."

Mutely the brown-haired youth nodded, too tired to object and moderately looking forward to the distraction from his physical (and mental) pain. It was in that intermittent reprieve—the calm between two storms—that Rafael realized something: Ratchet hadn't uttered a sound.

During his tirade he had expected some sort of reaction from the medic. Opinionated and haughty as Ratchet was, the twenty-foot mech had remained eerily silent. Worse, he still refused to turn around and face him. Even now, the sight of the medic's backside to the group flooded him with apprehension. Sheer mortification churned in his stomach, and Rafael forced the muscles in his throat to swallow the knot forming there. While Ratchet had come to his rescue, he doubted that the medic's charity extended beyond anything short of a direct order from Optimus to protect as need be. Gushing out his innermost feelings to the Autobot who probably loathed humans more than anything else was probably a stupid thing to do. Scratch that; it was downright humiliating.

Here he was, squirming, writhing, dreading the criticism sure to follow.

Not a peep came from the CMO.

_Isn't he even going to try and stop me from getting up and playing with Miko and Jack? _Wouldn't the mention of "physical activity" have sent him into a fit of histrionics? But nope, he was deathly silently, armor plates tense as he stared hard at the screen.

Once, Rafael had admitted to Bumblebee that he was afraid of the medic's temper.

Now he realized that a quiet Ratchet was more terrifying than any amount of screaming.

With a burst of static, Ratchet's transmitter erupted to life. Still facing the opposing direction, deftly he swung a hand toward the communication device embedded into the side of his helm. Obviously engaged on a private comm., he hesitated, listening to the speaker on the other end. At last the medic grunted, "Very well, I'll ground bridge you back to base. Just give me a minute to home in on your coordinates, Optimus. Ratchet out."

Tight-lipped he stalked across the enclosed quarters, approaching the command center stiffly. None of the children spoke as the white and orange Autobot engaged the ground bridge, sending out electrical pulses. The brilliant white and neon blue vortex sputtered to life beyond the transport tunnel, seconds later discharging static and the loping silhouettes of four Cybertronians.

Beeping and swooning, Bumblebee barreled into headquarters first. Optics wide, the mute scout only hesitated for a second to rapidly scan the area. When their gazes met, Bumblebee's vocalizer cracked on a chirp of excitement and not wasting a second more he sprinted. Tremors lapsed through the ground, deafening Ratchet's splutter of, "Bumblebee, what do you think you're—?" Before Rafael even had the opportunity to blink, he found himself being plucked from the berth and crushed into his guardian's outstretched arms.

Weakly Rafael giggled, relieved to snuggle against the muscle car's vibrating chassis. Despite his body's sore protests, the twelve-year-old continued to embrace Bumblebee, not really caring that the touch hurt. If anything, he appreciated being embraced against the warm metal, the steady purr of his engine.

Miko's renewed grin only broadened when Bulkhead suggested, "If it makes you feel any better, we could always superglue the kid to ya, 'Bee."

"Certainly not." Ratchet's indignant sniff only managed to amuse the kids more.

Sidestepping around her heavyset comrade, Arcee approached the medic with a relieved sigh. "No Decepticon activity," the sapphire femme reported.

"Quiet as a nest of sleeping Scraplets," Bulkhead absently agreed, scratching at a circuit on the back of his helm. "Bit of a nice change of pace, if you know what I mean."

Optimus—who had already moved to stand before the wide monitor—only echoed the former Wrecker's wistfulness. "Peace is just a temporary in this conflict."

"Keep up _that_ positive attitude and we'll win the war for sure," Bulkhead bantered back, already stepping forward to scoop up Miko and prop the whooping teenager on his shoulder. Sparing his charge a devilish smile, the broad-shouldered mech called to Bumblebee, "Hey, I thought the kid was supposed to be on bed rest?"

Scowling, Ratchet darkly muttered, "'Was' being the operative word. Bumblebee, relinquish him at once!"

Over a maelstrom of disheartened beeps Bumblebee reluctantly set Rafael back onto the human-sized berth. Gesturing with frantic hand motions, the scout buzzed a few times and chirped in a manner not unlike a cicada.

A pained smile managed to worm its way across Rafael's flushed cheeks. Carefully cradling his injured wrist against his bare chest, the boy intoned, "I'm okay, 'Bee. I just need to take it easy for a while."

In a mirror image of Jack's dubious look, Arcee folded her slender arms across her metallic frame. Likewise she had strolled over to stand beside her human partner. "If there's one thing I've learned from living on this planet, it's that humans—can't—sit—still."

Nonchalantly Jack shrugged, sharing his guardian's partial smile. "I blame evolution."

"I blame the Internet," Miko piped up.

"Ratchet, where are you going?"

It was the deep timbre of Optimus' voice that got the others' attention. Head slunk down, the medic had been stealthily sneaking toward the base's exit. At the sound of his name he turned. The white-orange Autobot's expression betrayed nothing. "Pardon?"

Taking a step in Ratchet's direction, the Prime repeated cautiously, "Where are you going?"

He shuttered his optics in a gesture that went for innocence but far from achieved it. "Bumblebee, I had to remove the boy's shirt in order to bandage some of the trickier cuts. You'll find his clothing next to my medical supplies in the medbay storeroom. Make sure he isn't up and strolling about." Again avoiding eye contact with Rafael, the medic swung around and began to steadily walk away. "Out," Ratchet at last voiced. "I have a few errands to run."

All too quickly Ratchet sprang into a surprisingly agile hurdle. When he made contact with the ground again the last of his gears and circuitry had shifted accordingly into place. The remaining humans and Autobots gaped at the sight of the ambulance speeding around the corner and out into the crisp nighttime air of Jasper, Nevada.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hey, I have a request to ask of you guys, if ya don't mind. As this is my first Transformers fic, I would greatly appreciate any honest feedback on how I've written the Autobot characters and their behavioral/internal/structural features. Many heartfelt thanks in advance! I also want to extend my heartfelt gratitude to **Soului**, **Wolf Mystic**, **Blood Shifter2**, **Elita One**, **wolfyfox3**, and **Kittie1** for the positive feedback so far! You guys made me smile, and I'm glad my story is meeting your expectations.

This chapter goes to the little kid in all of us, because sometimes we all feel a bit lost and vulnerable. Don't worry; your regular dose of humor will return with the next chapter. No more melodramatics , I promise.


	3. Leveling the Playing Field

**Author's Note**: Holy cow, you guys are amazing. Seriously, I'm practically a giddy schoolgirl from all of the happy-reviewer-feedback I've gotten over the past few days. I'm so glad that I'm doing this fandom some justice and making a lot of readers smile. On another note, many of you predicted that Ratchet would "get even" with Vince. Let's just say that a lot of you could set up a private business as crystal-gazers and avoid being labeled frauds.

There's a reference to _Metal Attraction_ in this chapter!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Transformers_ or any of its characters/content. When that tragic day comes, you can safely dispose of any _Transformers_ merchandise you possess, as I will more than likely ruin any childhood memories you have because _I'd mess shit up bad_. Until then…

**Warnings**: Drug and alcohol use galore! Oh, and a bit of cigarette smoking. And some dirty talk.

**Summary**: Vince learns Ratchet's definition of "corporal punishment" the hard way.

* * *

><p>Chapter Three: <strong>Leveling the Playing Field<strong>

Unlike earlier that afternoon the storm had abated, leaving the arid outskirts of Jasper dotted with puddles the size of Lake Erie. It was through one of said puddles that Ratchet splashed, sending up a spurt of foul rainwater that coated his axles. Normally such a filthy action would have sent the medic into a fit of swearing.

Not tonight, however.

Cumulus clouds still trekked across the nocturnal sky, the only indicator that Mother Nature had attempted to recreate the Great Flood and convert the small town into an outdoor aquarium. By the pale light of a crescent moon Ratchet travelled, headlights flared on as he roared down the asphalt road.

Intrusive pinging wailed in his audios, an incoming transmission that Ratchet had been attempting to ignore for the last five minutes. Venting a loud sigh, Ratchet skidded to a stop at an intersection. Due to the lack of human presence in the outlying desert, he safely assessed that no unwelcome fleshlings would eavesdrop. Turning on his long-range communicator sent a burst of static and cursing through his frame like a sensation of its own, temporarily deafening the white and orange ambulance. Correcting his earlier assessment, Ratchet transferred the screeching feed to a private line.

Once the cursing and yelling died down enough for him to make sense of what was being said, he wasn't surprised to hear a familiar—and _unwelcome_—female voice still berating him. _Where the slag are you?_

_Out for a drive_, answered the medic, keeping his tone deceptively even. _I told you, I_—

_Cut the crap, Ratchet_. It was an apt, if somewhat vulgar human expression Arcee had "overheard" one day while on a routine scouting mission with Jack. _You'd sooner have your wrench sold for spare parts before you willingly left the base. So I'll ask again, where the slag are you? And what are you doing?_

Astonished silence filtered through Arcee's end of the communication when Ratchet expelled a punctuated and wry laugh.

_Does something strike you as amusing, Ratchet?_ Her cross tone ceased Ratchet's spurt of rare humor. Engine still vibrating, the emergency vehicle sped off down the gravelly surface of a major highway that would no doubt carry him into town.

_I expected to hear this speech from Optimus, not you, Arcee_, he explained matter-of-factly.

_Your lucky day, then_. Scathingly the motorcycle snapped over the line, _Optimus said that he trusted you enough to not make any "rash decisions," but I disagree._

_Really? You never would have struck me as the type to question our Prime's judgment_—

_And I never would have believed you to be the type of mech to pursue a petty rivalry!_ snapped Arcee, her patience waning. As Ratchet inconspicuously patrolled past the suburban district of Jasper (meanwhile scoffing at the identical rows of housing), his comrade groused across their connection, _Look, I just don't want to see you get hurt. Or any civilians, for that matter_.

Pausing at a stop sign, the medic dimmed his headlights. Had he not been confined to his alt mode, he would have made a sour face at the graffiti etched along the brick walls of a nearby restaurant. Honestly, there was a reason why Cybertronian culture was infinitely superior to that of humans'. They called that art? It was vandalism at its finest, a tribute to the decline of the fleshlings' civilization and everything about it Ratchet loathed. _I'm not a sparkling, Arcee_, chastised the medic in a disgruntled huff. _I can take care of myself_.

_Oh, you __certainly__ can_. Exasperation was beginning to give way to puzzlement as the steel blue Autobot sighed, _I don't get it. Since when do you care about what a few juvenile delinquents do?_

_That's one too many times that little punk has left Rafael discarded like a ragdoll_, Ratchet snarled, a sudden explosion of anger sending Energon pumping wildly through his circuits. Trying desperately to still his temper, the ambulance focused on wheeling down a street bordered by stores and pedestrians alike. _You weren't there! Bruised from being kicked and jabbed at; slashed by some sort of utensil, maybe a pocket knife; blood staining his clothes until I could barely see the color that they originally were… _

While he meant for his assessment to be more professional than personally concerned, something must have slipped through his vocalizer because after a few kliks Arcee chimed in, _I wish that you were as concerned about our battle scars. Whenever we limp into sickbay, you just criticize us for being careless_.

_Hardy fraggin' har. Your sympathy just caused my spark to go atwitter_.

He could practically see the cheeky curve forming along Arcee's lips as she observed, _I wonder how the kids would react to hear that you actually care about them_…

_Unless you would prefer to wake up welded to Bulkhead's aft, then I suggest you mute it_. _I know how much you enjoyed that little situation. Trust me; it wouldn't take much effort to recreate it. _That certainly shut her up.

Unfortunately, such miracles were short-lived. As if to prove his point Arcee resumed speaking, waylaying his threat: _Primus, some 'bot needs to do you a favor and program a sense of humor into your processor. That, or get you laid_.

Going off of common sense rather than an actual knowledge of the area, Ratchet rotated his wheels and plowed between the dank stone walls of an alley. A sharp din came from behind a nearby trashcan. Of its own accord the brake pedal slammed forward, jerking the automobile's form to sudden halt as a stray cat darted across his path. Revving in exasperation, Ratchet plowed onward, emerging onto a shadier side street that was dimly lit. Again came Arcee's voice, an apprehensive sound that clicked with worry: _Whatever it is you're doing, I don't like it_.

_There's something new_, snarked the medic. Already the ambulance had dimmed his headlights to the lowest setting, attempting to melt into the shadows along the dirty sidewalk he had parked alongside. What had caughthis attention were several rowdy, raucous voices, slurred and trumpeting their intoxication with whoops that made his internals throb. Flocking outside of what evidently was a bar was a gang of teenage youths, clad with leather jackets and reeking of human alcohol. They burst into ostentatious laughter that tore from their gaping jowls, leaning on each other for support as they perched on the hood of a black sports car decked with flames.

One individual in particular, an adolescent male with unruly locks of auburn hair and a permanent sneer carved into his face.

Perfect.

_Hey, are you listening to me?_ Impatient static cut through the whirlwind of schemes already unfolding in Ratchet's processor. _If you do something reckless and kill our cover, Fowler is going to—_

_Arcee_, he interjected, venting a sigh, _do me a favor._

_What?_

_Blow it out your exhaust pipe._

Ratchet terminated their connection before she could protest.

Left to his own devices, the medic shuffled aside the nagging voice in his processor that was setting off all sorts of warning bells_._ Instead, the ambulance focused on inching down the almost-barren road toward the hooting gang now sprawled inside and on top of the sports car. He was a predator stalking his prey. Repercussions didn't matter at this point; he wanted to hear that juvenile delinquent_ scream_.

"Vince," drawled a black-haired boy, twice his target's height and weight. "Did'ja see the _ass_ on that chica? Man," he moaned, "what I'd give t' get in her pants."

"Shove it," another boy chipped in, hanging partially out of the backseat with his legs propped against the leather. To Ratchet's amazement, the blonde scoundrel was _still_ able to make coherent noises with the cigarette clamped between his incisors. "You got a girlfriend, don't'cha?"

"Naw," the first speaker groaned, pausing to indulge in another swig of some foul-smelling liquid. Had Ratchet been in his bipedal form, he would have curled his faceplates at the vile odor wafting his way. "That bitch ain't worth nothin'. Always gripin' 'bout something or other. Who asked ya, huh?"

Vince gave a raspy laugh with a voice scratched by smoke and intoxicants. "If you don't keep it to yourself, then it's fair game for anyone." With droopy, bloodshot eyes Vince glared at his "friend." Or lackey. The Pit, anyone could have called them minions and would have been technically correct. _The fleshling could Megatron a run for his Energon_, the medic noted with overwhelming disgust. Closer still he drove, prudent to offline his headlights and dull the thrum of his revving engine.

"Besides," his target went on, "she had only eyes for _me_." In a self-assured gesture the foul boy puffed out his chest.

"But," another companion objected, his voice all but subdued to the point of inaudible, "don't you like that girl from school? See…Sarah…Sari…Sauna…"

Apparently the sandy-haired teenager was too tipsy to do more than incorrectly guess at Vince's love interest. Mumbling, he trailed off into a yawn and vanished behind the backseat of the vehicle, a distorted snore echoing from where he had passed out.

"Sierra? Pfft. Please," snorted Vince, dismissively waving a hand. "Hold me to higher standards. Even that Darby punk can woo that bitch." At the mention of Jack, Ratchet had to overwrite a code in his neural net to suppress a verbal growl.

"Ha!" crowed the black-haired youth. Leaning in on the hood of the onyx vehicle, he temptingly flaunted the beer in front of his leader's flushed face. "You're jus' sayin' that 'cause she won't say yes. She sees you comin' and runs the other way with her friend in tow."

Rage contorted the muscles in Vince's face, and with the same strength he had used to strike Rafael, the redhead shoved his friend. Hard. For a wild moment the black-haired boy flailed, precariously caught on the rim of the hood, and Vince snatched the bottle from him with a smirk. "Thanks, _amigo_," he sneered, the aggressive action causing the other boy to lose his balance and hit the road. Head thrown back, Vince guzzled loudly, followed by a belch that caused Ratchet to mentally cringe.

_Repulsive_.

The stealthy medic was gradually nearing them, only ten feet away…five feet…

"That means bull, Vince," the blonde teenager snickered, puffing out a heavy cloud of ash and smoke. For several moments the skinny kid hacked, a noise that Ratchet diagnosed out of habit. _Charred lungs from smoking_. _Cancer, maybe? _Not exactly practiced in human diseases, the white-orange mech couldn't be specific—or overly concerned. Finally done hacking up his lungs—_Or whatever is left of them_, he ammended―the other boy continued: "You're just bluffing. You just not man enough to admit she's _way_ outta yo' league."

"Fine!" Vince snapped, vaulting himself off of the car's hood. Upon making impact with the ground, he staggered, the alcohol distorting his sense of equilibrium. Swearing loudly, the auburn-haired vandal began to lurch unsteadily toward the driver's seat door of an ambulance, already thrown wide open in an inviting gesture. "I'll go pick up that little slut _and_ her sorry friend and get them _both_ to sleep with me. C'mon," he barked, climbing into the seat, "I'm drivin', 'cause none of your sorry asses are sober enough to do it."

"V-Vince," the black-haired boy stammered, eyes widening from more than just the alcohol in his body. Still sprawled on the ground mere inches from the ambulance's gyrating wheels, he spluttered, "That's not my car, man."

"What?" Vince's reaction turned from befuddlement to terror as Ratchet slammed the door shut with enough force to leave dents. Before his prisoner could do more than squeal a disjointed protest, the seatbelt coiled around him of its own accord. Squeezing him against the seat like an angry python, it clicked into place, sealing Vince's fate.

Immediately the engine roared to life, expelling exhaust on Vince's friends and leaving them behind in a cloud of dust and other debris particles. As the boy, unable to move, trembled against the driver's seat, a a chilling voice filled the cab.

"Buckle up, kiddo. We're going for a little ride."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Oh no. Another cliffhanger. :D I hope you guys are ready, 'cause the next chapter is gonna give you hell. (Hey, even Ratchet has to get his kicks from _somewhere_.)

Another round of grateful shout outs to **Soului**, **Wolf Mystic**, **Blood Shifter2**, **Elita One**, **wolfyfox3**, **Kittie1**, **Chance O'Neal**, **Jalahi**, **e-dowely**, **plummy-kins**, **CyberAngelAlexis**, **Jbay64**, **09Lakersluva24**, and **XmenTmnt97**. Thanks for such nice reviews!

For those of you who are familiar with _Transformers Animated_, did you see a certain character reference? Honestly, I hated _Animated_, but I couldn't help poking fun at a certain human whom I immensely dislike. Nothing gets better than having your name used by a drunken swine. Definitely on the top of your to-do lists, eh?

I hope that the dialogue between the kids didn't sound too forced at the end.


	4. A Touch of Ratchet

**Author's Note**: If it weren't for the enthusiasm and support from you guys, I wouldn't be writing this fanfiction to begin with. Once again, kudos to all of you out there who leave me happy little reviews. I can't express enough how much it makes my day to hear back from the readers of this fic. Hopefully Chapter Four was worth the wait.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Transformers_ or any of its characters/content. For now I'll just have to settle with writing God-awful fanfictions about the things that I _wish_ would happen in the actual show. I also don't own legal documentation to All American Rejects' _Gives You Hell_, The Police's _Every Breath You Take_, Blondie's _One Way or Another_, Voltaire's _When You're Evil_, and Lily Allen's _Fuck You Very Much_.

**Rating**: M for extreme potty mouth language and lots of "what not to do while driving" examples.

**Warnings**: Anything that you see written here should NOT BE REATTEMPTED. Unless, of course, you have no qualms about dealing with the unlawful consequences of your actions. Then by all means, aspire to become _just like Ratchet_ when you're older.

**Summary**: Who knew that kidnapping _wasn't_ a federal offense? Apparently alien robots have diplomatic immunity—and medics have an interesting taste in music. Movieverse!Bumblebee isn't the only one with a flair for the radio.

* * *

><p>Chapter Four: <strong>A Touch of Ratchet<strong>

"Let me out!" shrieked Vince for the tenth time in the past two minutes. Rendered immobile in the seat, the auburn-haired teenager could do nothing more than fruitlessly writhe against his restraints. "I swear, I'll call the cops!"

"Don't do me any favors," snorted Ratchet, manipulating his communication line to broadcast his voice inside. "I'll hand you over when all is said and done; don't worry." Seemingly of its own accord the steering wheel violently jerked, propelling the medic and his captive into the lane of oncoming traffic. "Besides," he observed, feigning obliviousness toward the swiftly accelerating truck barreling their way. Around the busy street blared car horns and pedestrians' screams alike, the fanfare only dimming some when Ratchet swerved back into the right lane at the last second. "You can't reach your phone from your current position." Vince's terrified howl filled the Autobot's audios, a testimony to just how much _fun_ he could have with this fleshling.

_Whoa, there. Back it up, Ratchet_, he caught himself, curtailing that dangerous train of thought before it could evolve. _This is strictly business_.

Automobiles surrounding Ratchet on the bustling street honked shrilly as the white and orange ambulance sped past another stop sign.

"S-Stop!" Vince screamed, tugging with renewed vigor at the seatbelt that was all but suffocating him. Indeed, his face—already flushed with the alcohol he had shamelessly consumed—was beginning to adopt an extraordinary shade of magenta.

"Can't," replied the medic, his casual tone thinly masking the glee brimming beneath the surface.

"What are you, anyway?" Vince yelped, his eyes widening to point of nearly falling from their sockets as Ratchet ran a red light. "Some demon-possessed car?" As riddled with intoxicants as the vandal was, he couldn't help but feel impressed by the boy's attempt at cognitive speech.

Better fix that.

Repressing a cackle, the medic mollified his tone enough to sound indifferent. "Not quite," he answered, never once missing an opportunity to recklessly charge through several more red lights. By the Allspark, he loved violating human traffic laws. "I would have happily employed the title 'Satan's Ambulance,' but someone else had already beaten me to it." Without warning the gas pedal began to creep forward, the needle housed inside of the speedometer ticking ominously toward forty-five. "Say, are you comfortable back there?"

Vince's only answer was to flip the birdie in the direction of the dashboard.

"No?" inquired Ratchet, spinning his wheels rapidly enough to spray a group of human females when he drove through another puddle. Ignoring the guilt charging in his circuits, the medic mildly tacked on, "Hmm. Maybe some music will help you unwind. You strike me as a Blondie sort of person."

Simultaneously a dial alongside one of his speakers rotated, amplifying the volume to the point of deafening.

"_One way or another,  
>I'm gonna find ya,<br>I'm gonna get'cha, get'cha, get'cha, get'cha!"_

On a more professional level, the medic wondered to himself if it was physically possible for Vince's face to remain frozen in the state of fear he currently wore. It would be sorely disappointing if the punk didn't have a physical reminder of Ratchet for the rest of his miserably short life.

Attempting to simulate concern, Ratchet reduced the volume enough to be overhead. "What's wrong? You don't like this song? Not a surprise. Kids these days have no appreciation for the classics. Hang on; I'll play a different tune."

Replacing the latter song was a fresh wave of music, equally as earsplitting.

"_When you see my face —  
>Hope it gives you hell; hope it gives you hell!<br>When you walk my way —  
>Hope it gives you hell; hope it gives you hell!"<em>

Each subtle threat drained the color from Vince's face until he resembled one of those zombies that Miko was so infatuated with. A touch of pride ramped through his sparking cables as another delicious ploy entered his processor. Chassis vibrating from a mixture of engine growls and silent laughter, Ratchet adjusted the rearview mirror to better scrutinize the trembling boy's face. "You look a little hot back there. As an emergency vehicle, I cannot in good conscience allow you to remain overheated. How about some air?"

Over Vince's renewed screams Ratchet flung open the driver's and passenger's seat doors. Humans lining the nearby sidewalks gaped stupidly at the scene that the mech was painting. Violent air currents from the slipstream of the jeep ahead let loose eddies inside his alt mode. To any disbelieving eyes, it might have appeared that Vince was behind each dastardly stunt, the latest being a blast from the radio loud enough to shatter glass.

_"Fuck you; fuck you very, very much!  
>'Cause we hate what you do,<br>And we hate your whole crew,  
>So please don't stay in touch!"<em>

"Shut the God damned doors!" Vince screeched, wrestling desperately with the boa constrictor-seatbelt hybrid.

"What?" Ratchet idly called back, relishing the abject terror written across his chalky complexion. Sweet Primus, it would be worth getting grit wedged into his tires to make this delinquent _squirm_. The clinical maintenance to his sensors later paled in comparison to the delight elating him now. Every aching strut from his frenzied exertions was just a minor nuisance in comparison to the sinful pleasure the ambulance was experiencing. All but trumpeting his response against the wails of the radio, Ratchet repeated, "I can't hear what you're saying! Speak up, would you?"

"The doors! The doors!" howled the redhead, voice slurred from an unhealthy combination of alcohol, narcotics, and cigarette fumes. "P-Please, just shut 'em!"

"More air?" the Autobot quirked, attempting to maintain a casual approach. To add to the din, Ratchet honked at several human adults preparing to cross a busy intersection. Shock mangled their faces as the humans careened backward, shouting obscenities drowned out by the roar of the wind and the howl of the radio. "The hinges on my doors won't extend any further, but I could always go faster…"

Vince's pathetic sob of "_No!_" was drowned out as the speedometer's needle trekked closer to fifty-five. Wind rammed into the ambulance doors, the pressure nearly drawing out a grunt of pain from the medic. Still he endured, plunging the inside of the car into an uproar as the radio's volume doubled.

"_When the Devil is too busy,  
>And Death's a bit too much,<br>They call on me by name you see  
>For my special touch.<br>To the gentlemen I'm Miss Fortune.  
>To the ladies I'm Sir Prize.<br>But call me by any name,  
>Any way it's all the same…!"<em>

"_I'm the fly in your soup!  
>I'm the pebble in your shoe!<br>I'm the pea beneath your bed!  
>I'm a bump on every head!<br>I'm the peel on which you slip!  
>I'm a pin in every hip!<br>I'm the thorn in your side;  
>Makes you wriggle and writhe…!"<em>

"_Shut the doors!_" At some point or another, it might become obvious to the humans that Vince's involvement wasn't entirely of his own free will. Should bystanders begin to fall into that dangerous line of thinking and grasp the reality behind the scenario, all of Ratchet's planning would be for naught. Reluctantly the medic caved_, Fine, kid; you win this round_, before allowing the doors along both flanks to slam against their respective locks.

Whatever minute traces of relief in Vince's eyes were short-lived. Extinguishing the punk's hope with a guttural snarl from his pistons, Ratchet brutally swerved in the middle of the street. Automobiles behind him skidded, shoving into each other with denting force as the white and orange mech reversed into the opposing traffic. Cars behind him honked indignantly, a fact that Ratchet overlooked as he continued to speed down the right lane.

With mock concern the Autobot chided, "_Tsk, tsk_. You shouldn't have made that illegal u-turn. What were you thinking, crossing over into the other lane?

Blotchy spots of red coated Vince's quivering face as he snapped, "What the hell are you talkin' 'bout? I didn't do that!" Strands of saliva flew from his jaws and speckled his steering wheel and cup holders.

Lovely.

Savoring the boy's trumped up leer, Ratchet made an abrupt turn and rounded a corner condensed with gaping shoppers, tourists, and locals. Once more the medic adopted a calm tone that concealed his overwhelming amusement: "Nonsense. You're the one behind the wheel, are you not?"

"Yeah?" spluttered Vince, his fear all but forgotten. "Well guess what? You _are _the fucking wheel!"

"Touché."

Vince's intoxicated snarl morphed into a squeal of panic as Ratchet blatantly ignored the red light at the approaching intersection. With practiced ease the brightly-colored ambulance navigated through the stream of opposing traffic, sending the adjacent vehicles into a tangle of rotating wheels and blaring horns. The screech of metal on metal rent the air, evidence of the minor collision between a van and silver jeep that scraped against each other.

"I forgot to mention that I'm a bit color blind," the medic lied while keeping his tone simple—innocent yet menacing. "Red lights and green lights are all the same to me. Fortunately, I strapped you down, so you shouldbe safe."

There was a new odor filling the inner compartment of his alt mode, one that Ratchet recognized all too well and mentally gagged at. To himself the medic consoled, _It's worth it in the end…even if that brat leaked lubricants all over my seats_. Slag it to the Pit, those stains and smell would be near impossible to wash out of the fabric. Cotton did have a nasty tendency to absorb unwelcome liquids and scents for weeks to come. _That's the last time I scan an emergency vehicle with cotton-based material for seating._

The sickening notion of returning to their home base smelling like a urinal seemed like a good enough reason to run himself off the road.

As Ratchet accelerated to an athletic feat of sixty miles per hour, he angled his alt mode's grills slightly starboard and propped half of his vehicular form onto the pavement. Already humans were crying out with shock, sprinting just out of reach as the medic vibrated down the sidewalk. Intentionally throwing his sense of balance off was suicide on his internal wires. Each jarring vibration, punctuated with high-pitched wails from startled pedestrians, left Ratchet's systems a roiling mess.

Minor repairs were the price he paid for terrorizing his organic captive.

At certain intervals he had to shift slightly, disc brakes throbbing as he did so, to accommodate humans who were either too slow or too stupid to avoid him of their own accord. One such pathetic scenario involved a hobbling elderly female who launched her groceries into the air and tried to blindly stumble out of his path. A loud _thunk_, followed by the ooze and spatter covering his sunroof left no doubt in his mind that he was now sporting a rather interesting new look.

Paralyzed to the point of having no bladder control, Vince stuttered in an octave that was falsetto from fear, "W-What do you want with me, you fuckin' four-wheeler from hell?"

Wonderful. Another fine example of just how _colorful_ the English language could be.

Perhaps it was time to become a little more creative. After all, he owed it to Jack, Miko, and Rafael, didn't he?

The brutal image of Rafael's frail body—an image that Ratchet had permanently logged into his memory files—was all the motive the mech required for his next round of revenge.

"For a start," the ambulance huffed, offended, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't swear like a sailor at me. I _am_ a rather delicate piece of machinery."

"'Delicate'?" repeated the leather-clad teenager, violently struggling against the seatbelt. His shrill laugh was teetering toward hysteria, _music_ to Ratchet's audio sensors. "You nearly plowed over that old lady with the shopping bags!" _And now I'm wearing her next meal_, Ratchet silently complained. "Don't tell me you have brittle bones or some crazy bullshit like that!"

"_Nearly_ being the key word," the ambulance corrected him, vocals suddenly sharpening with electrical discharge. It took quite a bit of energy to stabilize his voice so that it didn't pulsate from being jarred awkwardly along the sidewalk. Continuing to ignore the pandemonium that was his handiwork, he growled, "And don't test me, unless you would rather be injected with a twelve-inch hypodermic needle."

"Uh-huh." Skepticism somehow managed to find its way into Vince's mouth. "_Sure_. They don't make needles that long!"

"Emergency vehicles don't talk, either," the orange and white Autobot reminded his passenger. Now having safely planted all four wheels back onto the asphalt, he deemed it necessary to drive the message home. "Trust me when I tell you, you little carbon-monkey, that I have no problems with pulling over."

To demonstrate his point, the medic unexpectedly pulled into a parking lot. Vince's hope for escape crumpled, as did the streetlight that Ratchet rear-ended.

"I am pleased to report," he dutifully said over Vince's gibberish babble, "that my taillights are replaceable. Your skull, however, is not."

"Fine, fine!" wailed the scrubby teenager. Vince renewed his attempts to struggle against the seatbelt crushing him into the cushion he had taken the liberty to piddle on. Certain that the boy's efforts were useless, Ratchet swiftly evacuated the parking lot and departed down the road that he had used to enter Jasper. Between exhaling his frustration through gritted teeth, the human male half whimpered, half growled, "What do you want?"

"A fair question," Ratchet retorted, his reply rich with sarcasm. "Let's negotiate, shall we?"

Cacti and rugged rock formations blurred past as Ratchet glided down a desert road. It was with deliberate intention that he refrained from answering right away. Scans on high alert, he spanned his fluctuating parameter instruments over the immediate vicinity and received a wide variety of feedback: core temperatures within the sand, water saturation along a gravelly aquitard underground, heat levels radiating from desert animals—

And the telltale electronic signature of a police cruiser parked only two miles due west.

Revving his engines eagerly, Ratchet blitzed fast enough to leave scorch marks in his wake. Inside the gauge where the speedometer was programmed, the stressed needle edged toward seventy.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" yelped Vince, the last traces of color vanishing from his face (and the last drops of excrement gushing out of his bladder, Ratchet noted with complete revulsion). Were he not confined to his ambulance form, he would have smirked when he tauntingly raced past the police car. The juvenile delinquent let out a cry that was partially muffled by the cop's sirens now joining in the chase. Back on Cybertron, a certain pair of twins would have been proud to see him mocking an enforcer.

"Are you short-circuiting or somethin'? Pull over!"

Behind his mock-worry façade Ratchet questioned, "Why would I do that?"

"They're _state troopers_!"

_Even better_, the medic decided. "Well, then, let's see if they're as top-notch as they claim to be. Besides, I heard that you like to race, kid."

Quailing under the circumstances, Vince was rendered to shaking his head in a wordless plea. So far, so good. Plan A—scare the little punk until he begged for mercy—was complete. On to phase two…

"I'd like to remind you," Ratchet chipped in, his sudden speech badly startling Vince, "that I can only reach and maintain speeds of seventy miles per hour for a short amount of time. Perhaps we should discuss your options before I am undoubtedly pulled over."

As if on cue, the cop car broadcasted a male human's voice: "This is the police!"

Humans were very strange creatures indeed. Not only did they have the tenacious habit of being utterly unreliable, but they also had a tendency to state the obvious.

"This is a federal order for you to cease and desist! Bring your vehicle into park immediately!" bellowed the male officer.

Amidst his desperate squirming Vince cried out, "_I'm trying_, you jackass!" It was rather lucky that the glass imprinted into his alternate form was soundproof, save for when the windows (or doors) were open.

Finally his prisoner substituted struggling for glaring at the dashboard. "Alright, you sadistic piece of metal, what do I have to do to get off'a this thrill ride?"

"It's rather simple, really, so your substantially tiny brain should be able to comply without too much stress," the mech answered, focusing on the modicum of rage swimming through his neural net. _This is for the kids_, Ratchet vowed to himself. If it weren't for the fact that he was so involved in his interrogation, he might have felt his pride mortally wounded by such a show of over-protectiveness. He was the Autobots' sarcastic and temperamental medic, not a babysitter for those human children that Optimus had readily welcomed into the fold. And yet here he was, wasting _his_ precious time and _his_ depleting energy just to punish some upstart fleshling. Only later would that analysis horrify the white-orange mech and leave him in complete denial that he had ever gone out of his way to be nice to those ungrateful brats.

Revenge first, regret afterward.

Onward Ratchet proceeded: "The enemy of my friend is also my enemy, so I'll put things into perspective for you." Cold dislike filled the cramped space of the automobile's interior as he vented quietly, "You will leave Rafael Esquivel and his friends alone. Should I ever catch wind that you so much as _blinked_ at them, I will make your life the equivalent of the Pit."

Needless to say, Vince didn't require a trans-species dictionary to understand his captor's threat.

Headquarters was only ten miles toward the precipices, close enough for Ratchet to deem his mission complete. Under compliance with the cops' irksome sirens he skidded to a bumpy halt along the road. Vince's reassured groan dwindled into a snivel as a shaded state trooper strolled up to the driver's seat. Not needing an invitation to cooperate, Ratchet unlatched the seatbelt from the vandal's waist, likewise unlocking the door.

His whispered parting words to Vince echoed from the dashboard: "Remember, punk. If you say one word about me, I'll pummel your sorry aft into the nearest freeway. Then again, you're so drunk right now that I doubt the police would believe a word you say."

Throwing open the door, the human authority roughly seized Vince by the collar of his leather jacket. Amidst a steady squall of incoherent protests the officer removed him from the driver's seat and slammed him chest-first into the police cruiser.

"You've got nerve, kid," snarled the human male with far more aggression than was needed. One unnoticed scan informed Ratchet that the man was functioning on a low level of sleep and sorely required rest. Or caffeine, as Jack had said.

"You must be the little lawbreaker that raised hell in Jasper." As the uniformed cop spoke a deft hand was already working Vince's wrists into handcuffs. "My buddies called me 'bout half an hour ago and said that some drunken idiot was tearing up the town. Kid, I've got you down for driving under the influence, running red lights and stop signs, speeding, grand theft auto, destruction of public property, every illegal turn under the sun, nearly hitting pedestrians…"

Too consumed with his list of charges, the human officer didn't notice Ratchet as he silently prowled away across the sand. Vince—eyes bloodshot from booze, tiredness, and terror—didn't miss the medic's stealthy getaway, or the ominous clips of music trailing from a partially open window on the passenger's side:

"_Every breath you take.  
>Every move you make.<br>Every bond you break.  
>Every step you take.<br>I'll be watching you…"_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I sincerely hope that when you guys hear those songs in the future, the first thing that comes to mind is a speeding ambulance with a screaming teenager locked inside it. If that's the case, then I have succeeded in my life's mission. Courtesy to the Internet for all of the things Ratchet did to Vince. You'd be surprised what Google-searching "illegal things to do while driving" will get you. (Some of them I'd rather not mention.)

Did any of you catch the references from the 2007 _Transformers_ movie? Poor, poor Bumblebeee.

Now, I have a question to ask you, faithful readers: Was Vince's punishment_ too_ harsh? Were Ratchet's methods _too_ out-of-character? Remember, all feedback is greatly appreciated and take into consideration when writing future chapters! (And don't fret; our favorite medic's antics don't go unnoticed. Hint, hint.)

There are too many people to thank for being awesome. For a full list, please see the Reviews section.


	5. Prime Knows Best

**Author's Note**: Fifty. Two. Reviews. You guys honor me with such nice things to say and constructive feedback, both of which are beyond appreciated. A lot of your reviews left me quirking a smile and giggling likewise. I reiterate my prior statement: were it not for such awesome readers, I doubt I would be writing this fic at all. Kudos to all of you for keeping my game face on. Now, to address some concerns about Ratchet's OOC behavior: Be rest assured, the collateral damage wasn't overkill. Just a few banged up cars, one totaled streetlight, a sidewalk no doubt covered in tire tracks, and one very upset granny who has to go back to the supermarket to replace her groceries. To top it all off, Optimus isn't exactly oblivious to Ratchet's actions, and has quite an earful to give his misbehaving medic.

There's a reference _to Masters and Students_ in this chapter!

I got a bit of the inspiration for this chapter from the movie _The Incredibles_. Mrs. Parker does not approve. Neither does Optimus. Also, I think that I was a bit vague with the actual times in this story. Ratchet left the Autobot base around nine o'clock. His joyride with Vince took place over roughly the course of an hour.

**Disclaimer**: I hate renouncing the throne, because I want to sit on it _badly_. So does Starscream, for that matter. (Sorry, Screamer; you had your chance to shine between episodes 6 — 14. Better luck next time.)

**Rating**: T, as usual.

**Warnings**: Optimus gets pissed. 'Nuff said.

**Summary**: I tip my hat to Ehren Kruger, who wrote the line in _Dark of the Moon_ that inspired this chapter:

"_These Autobots are like teenage kids, they like to sneak out of the house every once in a while._"

I also lend my hat to my sister, who pressured me into going through with this chapter.

* * *

><p>Chapter Five: <strong>Prime Knows Best<strong>

Wheels all but gliding across the metallic floor, noiselessly the white and orange ambulance prowled through the entrance tunnel. Equally as hushed, Ratchet slipped into the spacious hangar, cables, gears, and Energon lines clicking and sliding into place. Four sturdy tires reverted to glinting steel pedes, a seamless transformation from vehicular to bipedal.

Towering at twenty feet, the mech allowed his dimmed optics to scan the vicinity of their base. Luck appeared to be on his side, because he was met with no opposition. At a glance, the singular room was empty. Deciding that a visual check would suffice, Ratchet allowed his shoulders to slump in relief at the fact that he was alone. With a drained exvent the medic graciously padded toward the faintly lit monitors. Only the pulsating data feeds on the screen emitted any source of light within the room; everywhere else furtive shadows pervaded, granting the medic the cover of darkness.

Stealth had never been Ratchet's forté, but he was nonetheless pleased that he had maintained enough silence to get him this far. Returning to base at twelve in the morning was fairly suspicious under normal circumstances; returning to the base with shattered taillights, worn struts, and still-detectable food stains on his armor plating would raise too many awkward questions about certain extracurricular activities.

A warning signal popped onto the inner rim of his HUD, a stern reminder that his tanks were dangerously nearing empty. It was a wonder he hadn't collapsed from all of his midnight exertions. While the Autobot's endeavors had been worth it to see the human child scream, the medic hadn't been lying when he'd informed his prisoner that maintaining certain speeds for long stretches of time was taxing.

The thought of his comrades peacefully in recharge had his own mechanics thrumming, a plea to shutter his optics and fall into his waiting berth. Or however far his legs could carry him before he unceremoniously hit the ground wherever he happened to be standing at the time.

More intrusive pings alerted him to an emergency-stasis lockdown, should he neglect to refuel in the next dozen kliks or so. Rest would have to wait. Palming himself with a servo, Ratchet stepped beyond several blackened crates into sickbay. To his stupefaction, propped against a shelf lined with various equipment and datapads was a cube of waiting Energon. Its silhouette was just barely visible in the gloom. Even more baffling was an innocent leaf of paper, scribbled across with tidy, neat print that he recognized as his Prime's handwriting.

_For Ratchet_, the note read.

"How considerate," the medic rumbled, lifting the liquid to his parted mouthplates. Systems whirred as the cool, slick Energon gushed through his internals, triggering sensor nodes that gamely responded to the fuel. Already his thoughts strayed, lost in the reboot of configurations across his neural net. Clicks filled the space around him from where his joints protested to Ratchet's leaning against a wall for support.

Refreshing as the Energon was, it brought with the faintly sweet taste a nagging guilt that charged through his circuits. Here he was, sipping at the thoughtful gift Optimus had left him, after he had deliberately rampaged across Jasper, Nevada. The Pit, Ratchet should have just taken their Prime's list of rules and ripped it down the middle right in front of his optics. Blatant disregard for Optimus' statue of secrecy, it was, a stab in the back to an eternity-old friendship.

No. No, no, no. He couldn't permit himself to apologize for his actions, not after everything was said and done. With a marginal bit of luck, the white-orange mech would never have to explain himself. Simple as that. They couldn't rebuke him for what they didn't know about, now could they?

Near-nonexistent shudders caused the plating along his frame to rattle. Primus forbid, if Miko, Jack, or Rafael ever realized that he actually had a spark beneath that metal exterior, he'd have to offline himself on the spot. Better yet, remove the problem by eliminating the organics that had caused said problem in the first place.

No, wait. Killing the human children would contradict his earlier actions against Vince, a fact that drew a groan from the medic. Not to mention create a nasty scenario involving many upset Autobots and humans alike, and a tedious mountain of paperwork.

In retrospect, the last two scenarios were highly unappealing. Cybertronian or human, it didn't take much to detest just the _abstract concept_ of filing legal documentation. It was amazing that there were humans on this Pit-forsaken rock of a planet that _wanted_ to work in secluded box-shaped offices and do nothing but shuffle through paper. Really, there was a reason why Cybertronian culture was vastly greater than the humans'. Need he elaborate more on their choice of employment? Jack's current occupation still caused Ratchet's faceplates to curl with suppressed abhorrence. How did the humans even _justify _handing out greasy food in a paper bag through a window as a career?

To fill the void of semi-creepy silence, Ratchet tipped back his chin and swallowed another mouthful from his cube.

Speaking of culture… It was fragging bad enough that he had broken all of those traffic laws without the kids discovering that Ratchet had a beyond-ignorant knowledge of their music. Admittedly, yes, those wails and screeches that Miko attempted to recreate on her guitar were enough to give Ratchet a processor ache and leave his tanks churning. But not _all_ of their instrumental compositions were intolerable; just a staggering ninety-nine percent were.

It was a guilty pleasure that Ratchet would never have admitted to—not even to Prime—even if held at pointblank range under cannon fire. Whenever he believed that his current location was private enough, he would extend his private comm. to incorporate local broadcastings from radio feeds as he tinkered on ground bridge calibrations.

Another indulgence not even the threat of death could tear from his lips.

By the Allspark, he was going to need a separate log just to organize the list of secrets that he would prefer remain that way: secret. If the human children ever discovered the true extent of his—dare he say it?—_concern_ toward them, no doubt they would be constantly pestering him to play those insufferable computer games, or race along the roads with the windows open, or help them with their homework…

Wait, hadn't he done the last one already?

Scrap.

That settled it. Anymore obvious indications and he would have to join the "We Love Humans" fan club that Arcee, Bumblebee, and Bulkhead had unwittingly started. All attributing evidence to his reputation as the no-nonsense Chief Medical Officer would be, as the humans said, flushed down the toilet.

Inwardly he winced. Perhaps that wasn't the wisest choice of idioms, considering that he still reeked like one.

But was it really so terrible to allow himself to feel a shred of affection toward their guests? While Rafael, Miko, and Jack were walking Decepticon magnets with a penchant for misbehaving, deep down they only meant well. No denying that they were loud, nosy, and the cause of many processor aches. But all negatives aside, the children compensated for their fleshy flaws in other ways. Tired as he was, however, he couldn't name any redeeming attributes off the top of his head.

Thoughts proceeded to inundate throughout his processor, an amalgam of contradictory emotions and unflinching pride. Draining the last quaff of Energon, Ratchet reflexively rolled his broad shoulders and stood. Well, his berth wasn't going to come to him any time soon. Best set off, obtain a suitable amount of rest, and sort out his obligations for tomorrow. With the newly-introduced Decepticon weaponry in their vault, ample testing needed to be performed to determine combat performance, along with routine maintenance checks to the ground bridge's electrical cords.

Still clutching his cube, the medic lumbered from the sickbay subsection and briskly shook his helm to clear it. Halfway across the jet-black command center Ratchet hesitated, lingering along a train of thought that he was averse to admit.

Maybe…maybe they weren't such terrible little urchins after all.

"Did you enjoy your drive, old friend?"

Cursing silently, he recanted the latter statement; those brats were the spawn of Unicron.

Out of habit the mech forced himself to rotate, sensory equipment lodged in his internals spewing out information that he had been too tired—and careless—to recognize. Harsh shafts of light brightened the room all too quickly for his still-dimmed optics, a gasp torn from his vocals at the discomfort. Watching him from a previously-darkened corner of the command center was Optimus, fingers interlocked in a contemplative gesture. Behind him lurked Bulkhead, Bumblebee, and Arcee.

It was exceedingly difficult to not flinch before the Autobot leader. Albeit being the stalwart Prime that he was (a fact that was bolstered by his battle prowess and reputation), Optimus was by no stretch of the imagination a screamer. That particular title belonged to_ him_, thank you very much. Still, when Optimus wanted to convey his disappointment, a mere tilt of the chin, combined with a deep frown and narrowed optics, was his equivalent to several hours of nonstop screaming.

Said look was the one that Ratchet was subjected to now, a glare that he would have preferred to not be on the receiving end of. For an uncomfortable klik of intense calm the medic held Optimus' gaze, desperately trying to assemble his increasingly panicked thoughts into some semblance of order.

Vocalizer clicking nearly to the point of resetting, Ratchet at last stammered, "Oh. You waited up for me. How…thoughtful." Shifting uneasily beneath the other mech's gaze, he nudged the sole of a pede backward. In his fingers the empty cube suddenly felt heavier, no doubt from the guilt laying siege to his mind. The corridor that led to his private quarters was only seven feet, four inches, and six centimeters away. Seven feet, four inches, and six centimeters from running as fast as he could in the opposite direction, all dignity forgotten.

Struggling to find his audials, Ratchet dared another step backward. He was so close! "Yes, yes, it was fine." Tact at this point was inadvisable, common sense told him. Better to try the foolproof approach and make a hasty retreat. Loathe as Ratchet was to ignoring authority, he was desperately tired and flushed with remorse. "Now that I'm here"—another step closer to freedom—"perhaps we should all return to our quarters. After all, it is late by Earth hours, and—"

"_Freeze_."

In automatic response to the command every treacherous node, receptor, and wire he possessed stopped Ratchet's movements. Resigned to his fate, the white-orange medic vented a nervous sigh and returned his Prime's visual query. "Is there something that I may help you with, Optimus?"

To answer his question, Optimus said out of the corner of his mouth to Arcee, "Please activate the news reel recorded an hour ago."

Face stern and anxious alike, the slender femme backed away and quickly approached the spare side monitor. At her touch, a light tap with her index finger, the digital panel flickered to life. For the umpteenth time that night Ratchet found himself bemused by the what he saw: a human male's face, not unlike the whimsical picture he had imagined earlier that afternoon. Reality, on the other hand, was a lot less amusing than the sardonic scenario his processor had conjured up.

"…there were fortunately no civilian causalities. Damages have amounted to broken vehicles, torn up sidewalks, and a decimated streetlight. The boy in question behind said destructive acts has declined to be interviewed, and his parents have requested that he remain anonymous. Police have promised that while the culprit is a minor, actions will be taken against the destruction to public property. We're now reporting live with Michelle Collins."

Before the Autobots' optics the scene rapidly diverted to a stocky dark-skinned female adorned in cherry red clothing. Beside her stood the elderly woman that Ratchet had swerved to avoid and in the process ended up wearing her groceries. Faint stains still adorned his armor plating even after Ratchet had spent forty minutes fruitlessly scrubbing. Part of the reason he had arrived so late to base was due to the fact that the tarnishes refused to leave his paint. Blasted organic food.

In the background of the footage was a corner street where caution tape warded pedestrians from the collision site of a van and jeep. Identical dents and scrapes on both vehicles indicated where they had grated against each other at thankfully slow speeds.

Primus, _he_ did that?

_Well_, Ratchet grimly consoled himself, _it's not_…_completely beyond repair_.

Angling her microphone toward the seething elder, the interviewer casually stated, "Here with me now is a witness from this evening's vicious attack. Can you tell us what happened to you, Ms. Jackson?"

Jowls aquiver, the rheumatic woman clutched at her mahogany cane and jabbed it at the cameraman. Obviously flustered, the operator behind the recording device stepped back, causing the screen to shake slightly. "That little hooligan not only hijacked an ambulance, but caused me to drop my shopping bags! Now I'll need to go back to the PetSmart and buy more tuna for my darling cat! Mr. Tibbles won't be getting fed until late tonight because of that—that—" For a moment the elderly woman's wrinkles contorted and she salivated, as if struggling to come up with a strong enough adjective. "—_whippersnapper_!"

Turning back to the lens, the gaudily-dressed interviewer simpered, "And there you have it. Poor felines are now faced with starvation because of one teenager's inconsiderate decision to drive under the influence. Back to you, Tony."

Either Optimus was being merciful or had underscored his point, because at that second the screen faded to static before blanking entirely.

Under his comrades' stares—Optimus' grave, Bumblebee's shocked, Arcee's miffed, and Bulkhead's indignant—the medic shifted the weight between his pedes. The first one to break the standoff, to Ratchet's surprise, was the ex-Wrecker.

Gaping as if he had been verbally offended, the heavyset mech sulked, "You went joyriding and you didn't invite _me_?"

"Bulkhead!" Optimus warned, the two syllables carrying more scolding than entire five-hour lectures could ever hope to achieve.

Sheepishly Bulkhead's facial plating around his mouth worked to compensate for his support. "I mean, uh… That was very irresponsible," he rumbled, not sounding in the slightest sincere. Out of an idiosyncratic tendency Bulkhead pawed at a circuit on the back of his helm. "Bad Ratchet," he tacked on for good measure.

Superficial hydraulics beneath Ratchet's armor worked to pump fluid through his systems, a response to the rising temperatures throughout his frame. He was already in a heap of trouble; what harm could jesting bring to the table? "I don't suppose that any of you would believe that this was a completely unrelated event?"

Folding his arms across his chassis in a gesture reminiscent of Jack, Optimus took a daring approach closer. Anger brimmed in his optics, joined with disappointment and confusion. "Ratchet…" Hesitating, their Prime vented heavily, expelling with it any overwhelming urges to launch into tirade. At last the towering mech inquired stiffly, "What sort of excuse warranted this behavior? You know that we_ never _abuse our power for personal gain."

"Rule Number One," sighed Arcee and Bulkhead together, their contributions to the discussion sounding suspiciously rehearsed. Similarly Bumblebee chipped in with an array of buzzes and clicks that no doubt relayed the same message.

Bulkhead's perturbed stance shifted, matching the uncertain looking widening across his myrtle green-brown plating. The hinges along his jawline creaked as he voiced uncertainly, "Did anyone else notice that we have lots of Rule Number Ones?"

While Arcee and Bumblebee spared him dubious looks, Optimus completely ignored his warrior's unusually observant remark. Red and blue armor rattling from suppressed irritation, he demanded, "Why did you abduct that human boy?"

_There_ was the question Ratchet had been expecting.

Frag it. He couldn't say it, not with the others listening with wide optics and expectant looks. He couldn't admit his real motives, not without causing himself to terminally glitch from embarrassment. Oh, there was definitely a fine line between martyrdom and honesty, but right now the truth was a lot less appealing. Sometimes, the medic told himself without much real conviction, you had to lie through your denta to do the right thing.

The problem was, the _right thing_ was extremely difficult to disconcert from the _wrong thing_ at this moment in time.

Resigning himself to all forms of punishment at their Prime's disposal, Ratchet guiltily mumbled, "I'm sorry, Optimus. I…" Words failed him as the white and orange mech met Optimus dead-on in the optics, pleading with him to see the remorse and confidentiality buried there.

Something akin to understanding briefly lit up his leader's crystalline-blue optics. Before the twenty-eight foot Autobot could speak, however, Arcee austerely cut across their interlude: "You—You glitching pile of bolts!" While Ratchet cowed beneath her verbal onslaught, the sapphire femme marched forward and flicked the medic across the front of his helm. Helplessly he winced, more from guiltiness than actual hurt. Servos held akimbo, Arcee spat, "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Arcee—" Optimus' intervention was all but drowned out in her one-sided rant.

Goaded by his teammate's glare, Ratchet jerked his chin upward and mockingly scathed, "No, Arcee, I am completely_ oblivious_ to the fact that I just violated protocols with the human government. So enlighten me, what have I done wrong?"

"Fragging medic," growled Arcee, rewarding Ratchet's barbed comment with another flick to the head, this one less gentle. "A human boy is now in prison because you decided to go AWOL! I'm half tempted to run diagnostic scans on you to be certain that you weren't hitting the high-grade before you sped out of base. Idiot."

"That vandal had his name on that prison cell _long_ before I decided to intervene," Ratchet retaliated, resisting the urge to locate his wrench and whop her senselessly with it. It certainly wasn't helped that the medic was running on reserve power and struggling to stave off recharge. Although the empty cube still hung from his clenched digits, the Energon had only served to remind him that his little spree had wasted precious resources. "Trust me," he snapped, narrowing his optics to slits, "I did the local authorities a favor. They're probably throwing a party right now, they're so overjoyed."

Amidst the background Bulkhead and Bumblebee watched, their gazes following the two speakers as if overseeing a tennis match. Optimus decidedly observed their oral sparring, his intense gaze gleaning a wealth of information from their dialogue.

"That isn't the point!" Voice modulator shrill to the point of offlining, Arcee struggled for several kliks to compose herself. Jabbing a finger in his face (and forcing Ratchet to go cross-eyed to keep it in his sight), she snarled, "I tried to tell you off earlier, but _no_. You wouldn't listen! Do you think that Fowler won't have noticed? He's going to _dismantle_ us because you decided that karma couldn't wait."

"And why not?" sniffed Ratchet, deeply offended by the jibe. Idly he swatted his comrade's servo away, bringing his faceplates dangerously close to Arcee's in the same fluid movement. "Perhaps if you were a better guardian, you would understand why I dislike watching Rafael bleed across my medbay—"

"Enough, Ratchet."

At last interfering, Optimus strode forward and flung out two servos, catching his comrades in the chest. With minimal force he shoved Arcee and Ratchet apart, the two glaring daggers at each other. Borderline furious now, Optimus quietly rumbled, "Arcee is an excellent guardian to Jack. You would be wise to amend your prior statement."

Sulkily Ratchet avoided the azure femme's stare, twice as much guilt sloshing through his systems. Logic told him that emotional influence was clouding his judgment, but _Primus_ he was angry. Where did _she_ get off telling him that he was out of line? Street racing with Jack, indulging in the kids' escapades to chase after Decepticons… _Sure_, he inwardly carped, _let's all tell Ratchet what a naughty medic he's been for trying to make those brats' lives a little better_. _Oh, and we'll completely forget about every irresponsible decision we've made over the last few weeks as well. That'll teach him a lesson for sure._

"Sorry," he at last grunted, reluctantly holding Arcee's gaze in a sort of stalemate.

Likewise she held his gaze, contempt, disbelief, and pain washing over her features. Not an astrosecond later she swung around, the silvery femme's voice constricted with myriad emotions. "Whatever. Just remember that you're not the only one who cares."

Still shaking, Arcee slipped off, armor glinting under the luminescent lighting before receding down a darkened corridor.

Flustered, Bumblebee and Bulkhead exchanged looks. Several staccato beeps echoed from the yellow and black scout. Equally confused, the broad-shouldered Autobot shrugged and answered, "Search me. She's just moody 'cause the Doc got under her circuits." His optics twinkled mischievously as Bulkhead shot Ratchet an admiring look full of approval. "For an old 'Bot, you sure know how to raise hell."

Grinning, Bulkhead called his goodbye before striding in the direction Arcee had taken. Bumblebee hesitated for a fraction of a second, conveying his distress with several beeps, before bounding after his friend.

Leaving just Optimus and Ratchet alone, the former too close for comfort and the latter still puffing out heated gusts from his argument. Fighting to control his temper, the white-orange mech helplessly eyed Optimus. His Prime's expression had melted into one of worry and concern, a look that suited him far better than fury.

"Optimus." Shame riddled his tone, and his optics widened. Desperate, pleading. "What I said and did, know it was with the best of intentions."

"I believe you, old friend." Taking Ratchet by surprise, Optimus slid a single finger under the medic's chin and forced tension wires in his neck to strain as they locked gazes. Caught off guard by the intimate touch, he could do nothing more than whimper. Deep vibrations rolled through his broader frame from the soothing timbre of his leader's voice. "But I am afraid that I still need to punish you for your actions." Releasing him, the red and blue mech slid away, the glint in his optics heartening Ratchet a little. "Head to your berth and get some rest. We'll continue this conversation in the morning."

With relief the medic nodded, too weary to argue, much less consider what his Prime had in mind for his reprimanding. Already the Autobot leader had dimmed the lights, restoring the room to its former state of blissful darkness. Just as he made to depart for his own quarters, Optimus' voice resounded from the partial gloom.

"And Ratchet?"

So much for rest. Biting back a groan, Ratchet whipped around and muttered irritably, "_What?_"

A pregnant pause followed before the reply came, bridling the chuckle that his audio receptors could just detect.

"Why do you smell like a public restroom?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: For those of you who are perturbed by Bulkhead's comment about "Rule Number One," it's sort of a running gag/inconsistency on the show. In _Darkness Rising, Part 1_, Arcee says that it's "keep a low profile," but contradicts herself by saying in _Speed Metal_ that it's "never abuse power for personal gain." I'm honestly starting to think that Optimus just changes it every week out of sheer boredom. Seriously, he's like Sir Cadogan from _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_, who kept changing the password to Gryffindor Tower freakin' five times per day.

Expect slower updates as the school year looms closer over the horizon. Another factor is the spinal problems and chronic neck pain that I've had over the last two weeks from typing in such an awkward position. Fear not; updates won't take_ too_ long.

Also, if any of you are curious, I have roughly sixteen chapters planned. Where there's wiggle room I may add or subtract from that number for the sake of the plot.

_Chapter Six: House Arrest!_


	6. Author's Note 01

**LOG September 04, 2011**

My sincerest apologies for getting all of your hopes up. While this isn't a new chapter, what I have to say _is_ a bit important.

First and foremost, school begins on September 06. While this doesn't necessarily present any major problems, it will mean that there'll be a mild lag (as far as new chapters go). Chapters six, seven, and eight are well underway, but will require a longer waiting period.

Right now, I'm caught in the crossfire of a move to a new house, a slight cervical injury, and lots of soon-to-be cumbersome school work (the second-to-last problem only being minor damage that can be fixed with some bed rest and medicine). These factors will contribute to fewer updates, but rest assured, I intend to have _Beneath That Metal Exterior _completed by January 2012 or so. (Though given my track record of procrastination, this date is susceptible to change.) Another hurdle includes a sorely lacking wireless router; our Wi-Fi connections were temporarily offlined, and we're waiting for Comcast to reestablish access to the Web. Just to give you guys an idea of how desperate I am, I'm writing this at an internet café.

Two weeks without internet access. _Two weeks_. I think I'm gonna go through withdraw or something. Three days without it and my mom's already noticed that I've started to shake.

On a side note, I won't be able to readily respond to individual responses, but I do want to send a heartfelt shout out to every person who has reviewed and this story to their Favorites/Alerts. You guys give me a purpose and incentive to keep writing. Nothing warms my heart more than positive feedback. Seriously, whenever I hear that this fanfiction made someone laugh or smile, I wanna run through the streets while doing cartwheels. (Fortunately, I've never actually tried that last part; otherwise I would be paying frequent visits to the hospital.)

…Do I hear 100 reviews? He, he. (Can you blame me for my ambition?)

Well, my friends, _aurevoire_.

And no. I don't speak French. I'm semi-fluent in Spanish (but in this case, French sounded much cooler).

**EDIT**: Thanks to Amozon28 for correcting my poor attempt at French.


	7. House Arrest

**Author's Note**: There's a reference to _Scrapheap _and _Deus ex Machina_ in this chapter!

**Disclaimer**: In an alternate universe, everything written here is canon. Sadly, this is not that universe.

**Warnings**: No fleshies were harmed in the making of this fanfiction.

**Summary**: There are many things in this chapter that I wish were real, two of them being _Cybertronian 101_ and compulsory vacations.

Chapter Six: **House Arrest**

* * *

><p>"<em>Freedom!<em>"

Arms thrown open in an ostentatious gesture, Miko skipped down the abbreviated flight of steps leading outside. Behind her trailed Rafael, his expression a blend of contemplation and ease. Afternoon sunlight radiated across the school grounds, the rainstorm from yesterday nothing more than a memory. Now-dissipating pools of rainwater glistened along the pavement and streets. Last-minute stragglers bounded past the two friends, tossing papers into the air like makeshift confetti. Whoops of glee followed as students raced away from the building and embraced summer.

Using his uninjured hand, the shorter child adjusted his specs. Fractured light glinted off the glass lenses. Lightheartedness tinged his voice as Rafael corrected the black-haired girl, "It wasn't _that_ bad, Miko."

"Says you," retorted the teenager, clambering atop a stone wall and perching on the rim's smooth surface like a bird of prey. To better illustrate her point, Miko widened her eyes beyond their normal stretching capacity and spared Rafael a beady look. It was half teasing, half annoyed, a gaze reminiscent of an owl's. "What can school teach us about the 'real world,' anyway? None of our teachers have a _clue_ that two groups of giant alien robots are duking out a centuries-old civil war on our planet! And they expect me to take them seriously?"

"Well"―Rafael rolled his―"the Autobots are supposed to be in disguise. It would kind of defeat the purpose if the entire world knew about them." Pointedly he elaborated, "If people knew about the Autobots, they would be constantly followed by paparazzi, just like Lady Gaga or Tom Cruise."

Comparing the Autobots to a singer who chose to bedeck herself in _meat dresses_ definitely created some disturbing mental images.

As exceedingly difficult as it was to not imitate the boy's eye roll, Miko managed. Grinning impishly, she extended a hand and carefully grasped Rafael's bandage-free wrist, hauling him over the lip of the stone wall beside her. Brushing her palms against her shirt, Miko resumed her garrulous chatter: "Still, things like the stock market crash and terrorists kind of pale in comparison, don't'cha think, Raf?"

His stare darkening, Rafael murmured, "Not unless you're including MECH." _Freaky_, Miko noted with an uncharacteristic bout of depth, _how chumps like Silas can turn one syllable into the most hated word in the Webster's dictionary_. An accompanying shudder followed her thought. Like switching off the water on a faucet, the teenager's insight vanished, replaced by a lively burst of conversation: "Whatever. Professors can throw me in detention as many times as they want, or shove as many projects down my throat as they damn well please. Doesn't change the fact that I hate the lot of 'em."

Curiously Rafael diverted his attention from the street to Miko. Curses were a constant for the girl when she vented about things that she truly despised, so he shunted aside the swear. Still cradling the sling stabilizing his wrist, the brown-haired youth quirked a brow. "What do you have against school, anyway?"

"Parents," Miko moaned dramatically. Kicking her legs against the granite, from her pockets she withdrew her cell phone and flipped it open. "Both sets of them. Always telling me how I need to 'sort out my priorities' and 'do better' in school. Puh_-lease_."

Instantly Miko realized her mistake, but before she could snatch back the words Rafael caught wind of them. Forlornly the twelve-year-old tucked his chin inward, staring absently at his reflection mirrored in a puddle overflowing with silt. "At least your parents care," he sighed, avoiding Miko's eyes.

Overwhelming guilt pounded through her agile body. Redirecting their conversation outweighed her other options, so rather abruptly she steered the duo out of those dangerous waters. Not once did Miko's eyes dart from the device's screen as the teenager amended, "Really, I think that the system is rigged so that kids are doomed to fail."

A more-easygoing scoff huffed from Rafael's parted lips. "What makes you say that?"

"For a start"―deftly Miko's fingers pecked at the keyboard―"Scantron tests. They're the fortune cookies of the academic world. After I fill in C and D enough times, I start to feel like that's going to be my grade: a C or a D. That, or 'The Man' is just screwing with me."

"You're paranoid." Despite his accusation, a brief giggle escaped Rafael.

"I'm telling you," protested Miko, feigning indignity, "any sort of quiz that requires you to 'fill in the bubble' is an automatic deathtrap for unwary victims. And it gets worse."

With an amiable smirk Rafael scooted closer, elbows brushing while he attempted to catch the recipient's name above Miko's text message. "What next? Cafeteria food?"

"Even more horrific." Upon pressing _send_ on her phone, the Japanese girl fixated him with a look that was meant to be piercing but radiated mischief. Even her best endeavor to act serious resulted in Rafael grinning broadly. "There's a conspiracy theory that involves killing students. No, really!" snapped Miko when Rafael merely flashed his teeth. "Listen! A really mean teacher told me one time that the red ink in her pen that she marked bad grades with came from a reservoir filled with blood. Apparently the blood is 'donated' by the bad kids who failed their research papers. That's gotta be codeword for 'abducted by the institution' or something. See, the way I look at it, society is targeting likely high school dropouts and―"

"Miko," Rafael interrupted, unfurling his intact arm to gesticulate, "did you ever consider that you watch too many sci-fi dramas on TV?" Backpack sliding onto the stone surface beside him, the straps eased off the twelve-year-old's shoulders in a flowing motion.

"Your point?"

Restlessly the raven-haired girl drummed her fingertips against her cell phone before flipping the portable electronic open again. From behind her cell phone's screen, Miko chanced a glimpse at her friend's face and was reassured to see that Rafael was distracted by her absurd speculation. Anything to cheer him up, she steely decided. Successive _clicks _reverberated through the space surrounding them, punctuated by Miko's impatient exhales. Intrigued by her resolve, the brunette boy peered more closely at the display. Multiple messages fanned across the _sent_ list, all addressed to Bulkhead and all relaying one identical question:

_where r u?_

_school ended, like, 10 minutes ago_

_did u get a flat on the way here? lol_

_is not happy :(_

_we're DYING 'Bulk!_

"Geez, Miko," Rafael mused, blinking at the never-ending outbox, "you sure you didn't send him enough texts?" His cheek earned him a mildly waspish look that was quickly abandoned in favor of a less irritated frown.

Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Miko darted an index finger toward a red key. Obediently the screen receded to black, and she snapped the panel shut, jerking her face upward. "Why did I forget to recharge my phone this morning?" Rhetorical question as it was, Rafael neglected to answer. Reluctantly pocketing the electronic device, the taller teenager sulkily crossed her arms and scanned the road, almost certain that she had overlooked a detail. At last Miko sighed, "I wanted to celebrate because today was the last official day of school. We can't exactly throw a party if we're still _here_, Raf."

"I'm sure they're just running late," Rafael assured her, meanwhile unzipping his backpack and rifling through its contents.

Bidden by his words, the memory of Bumblebee's inability to pick her friend up two days ago brought with them a surge of transitory feelings, namely curiosity. The last sentiment was a result of Ratchet's abnormal behavior from yesterday and Vince's absence during their final exam. Something that Rafael had observed with unconcealed relief, Miko inwardly chortled. Women's intuition suggested that her arrogant classmate was lying wasted in some deserted alley or at home with one hell of a hangover. Gossip passed from student to student revealed that among his other illicit activities—street racing, for example—were barhopping and drinking. If her suspicions were right, than the lumbering redhead was in a world of pain if he couldn't even haul his sorry butt to school.

And Vince deserved every last headache. After all, _no one_ screwed around with her friends. Sure, Miko idly noted, Jack and Rafael always called her a hyperactive troublemaker. But all unfair labels aside, the black-haired teenager would make anyone who messed with her group—'Con or human—rue the day they pissed her off. While monitoring the oncoming traffic with a vigilant eye, Miko smiled. Amazing how one teenage girl could fill such a harmless expression with absolute menace.

As it turned out, the tacks she had smuggled to class could be saved for another day. No need to waste them on Vince if he was already suffering—or absent from school.

"About time, guys!"

Unintentionally she jolted Rafael out of his thoughts with her boisterous greeting. Approaching the chalky-colored sidewalk were two vehicles: a burly moss-green and brown monster truck, accompanied by a smaller, sleeker muscle car decked with black racing stripes atop yellow paint. Beeping and honking giddily, the disguised scout slammed on the brakes, cutting it dangerously close as he halted against the pavement. Behind him Bulkhead drew to a more graceful stop, passenger seat door flinging open of its own accord. Following an exchange of excited looks, Miko scampered toward her beloved truck and affectionately pressed her ribcage against the hood. Likewise Rafael greeted Bumblebee with a hug that might have looked odd to a passerby. "My knight in shining battle armor," crooned the teenager, snuggling against the pleasantly warm hood. Stepping back, Miko skirted around the open door and vaulted herself onto the seat. "You've come to sweep me off my feet and take me away from this prison!"

Laughter vibrated from the truck's engine, accompanied by a static-laced grunt. "Miko," Bulkhead reproved lightly via speakers, "I gave you a way to contact me on your phone so you could call me in case of emergencies, not so you could give me a processor ache." Despite his chosen speech, the rumble contained a trace of amusement.

"Yeah, yeah"— the raven-haired kid nestled into the seat's fabric—"don't pretend you don't jump up and down like a little girl every time I send you a text."

"Do not," Bulkhead shot back. Contributing to their banter was a rapid blast of static from the radio, transmitting the Camaro's twitters and chirps. In response to his comrade's indecipherable comment the ex-Wrecker grumped, "That was different, 'Bee. Scraplets can make any 'Bot cry for his—" More beeps interrupted Bulkhead, combated by the heavyset mech a second later: "At least I didn't spend the next two weeks recharging with my weapons online."

Courtesy of the Camaro, Rafael's chuckle was transmitted across the two Autobots' shared feed. The first time Bulkhead had demonstrated this technique, it had freaked Miko out rather badly. (The battle-ready warrior had chosen to intercept a satellite transmission that had been playing clips from _Jurassic Park_.) Now their ability to sync up to various communication lines fascinated her. "It's okay, 'Bee," the bespectacled boy assured him. "I still keep the bathroom lights on when I go to bed."

Cheerful clicks emanated from the truck's speakers.

"Anyway," said Bulkhead as his hulking alternate form halted at a stop sign, "I'm just here to give you a ride. Besides, I doubt that high school is a _prison_. If your parents are okay with sending you there, than so am I."

Elevating an eyebrow, Miko gave the dashboard a dubious sniff. "'Bulk, have _you_ ever gone to high school?"

That definitely stumped him. Rafael's poorly-concealed giggles resonated throughout the monster truck's interior, along with a cicada-like chirrup that could only be the scout's attempt at laughter.

"Well, no, but…"

_Score_—_Miko: one, Bulkhead: nil_. Still smirking, Miko victoriously crossed her arms behind her skull and brushed the pigtails aside. "Then I rest my case."

More beeps filled the compartment as Bumblebee stated something. Moments later came Rafael's voice, confused by the sound of it: "Why is it a bad idea to hug you in public? People can't see what you really are as long as you're disguised as cars."

Unexpectedly Bulkhead threw in his two cents, accompanied by an amused snort. "Just because we look like cars doesn't mean humans won't balk when they see two kids rubbing themselves all over our hides."

"So?" yawned the older child, idly brushing a jet-black bang from her forehead. "We don't care if a few weirdoes stare. We can just say that we're enthusiasts or somethin'."

"Enthusiasts with a car fetish," Bulkhead snickered. The force of his laughter sent a shockwave of tremors across the seats. Vibrations rattled through Miko's bones and sent her teeth ajar with the strength behind the single act. Equally as tear-jerking, she echoed his perverted reaction with a bellow of her own.

Stern blares piped from the radio, followed by Rafael's naïve inquiry: "What's a fetish?"

Unable to help herself, Miko doubled over and clutched at a stitch forming near her ribcage.

Under the barrage of scolding that Bumblebee pulsed across their communicators, Bulkhead cowed. Sheepishly her guardian muttered, "Got it," and quickly changed topic: "So…how did you do on your final exams?"

Rafael's "_Aww_" assured the raven-haired girl that he would demand an answer later. "I felt really confident about the material, considering we reviewed for the test yesterday." With a groan Miko thumped her head against the seat cushion. Enthusiastically he launched into a wave of technical talk: "The section about Pythagorean Theorem was pretty easy, but on question eighty-three I think that I mixed up the formulas for the volumes of a cylinder and the volumes of a sphere." Disappointment flooded from Bulkhead's radio, just as quickly replaced with pride. "I still think I did well."

While the yellow sports car honked to express his happiness, Bulkhead sounded almost as despondent as Miko felt. "Yeah, uh, that's great, Raf." Jasper was well behind them now, an industrial oasis on the edge of Nevada's ceaseless deserts. To her horror, the monster truck decided that if he was going to suffer through an ear-bleeding sermon, then so was she. "What about you, Miko? How were your tests?"

_Don't remind me_. "Not bad," she reluctantly conceded, stretching her neck to watch cacti and boulders whiz past the window. The normally-bubbly teenager brightened at a moment's notice, recalling what one of her teachers had interrogated her about that selfsame morning. "Actually, Mr. Thompson told me the grade I received on my history essay before the math test."

"You got your score back already? Lucky," muttered Rafael through the radio transmission.

On its own the gas pedal inched forward, nudging the needle of the speedometer closer to thirty-six. "Really?" inquired the ex-Wrecker in what was clearly an attempt to sound intrigued. "What was the grade?"

_Cue bombshell_. "Oh," Miko drawled, "nothing too fancy. Just a D."

Just as she had expected, Bulkhead's brake pedal violently slammed into the floor. Screeches and painful shrieks clawed the air, a tribute to Bumblebee's mad swerve to avoid collision. Just grazing his comrades by centimeters, the yellow and black blur careened past her guardian's alt mode and skidded across the sand. Long, diagonal tire tracks were gashed into the granular terrain, while burnt skid marks from Bulkhead's wheels marred the road. The abrupt halt caused Miko to catapult forward; only her loyal seatbelt kept the black-haired girl from crashing into the windshield.

"Miko?" Rafael's voice quaked as the Camaro transmitted his question. "Are you okay?"

Whistles blared from the speakers in a concerned sort of tone. Not that she could really tell.

"Yeah," Miko groaned, leaning back to better massage her scalp, "I'm fine—"

"_A_ _D? You got a D on your essay?_" Bulkhead's shrill roar ricocheted throughout the truck's interior, deafening her. "Miko," huffed the forest-hued mech, fighting for control of his audials, "I thought you said that you _knew_ what you were going to write for your end-of-semester report."

Offhandedly Miko shrugged, trying to rope in the smile she could sense spreading across her lips. It was always hilarious to get underneath her guardian's armor. "Of course I had my topic picked out," the teenager agreed, settling against the seat once more. "The teacher just didn't like it."

"What was your topic about?" Rafael cut across. Bumblebee repeated the question in his own manner, a series of spry buzzes conveyed through the vehicle's broadcast.

"Interactions between Ancient Greek city-states and Cybertronians."

At a snail's pace Bumblebbe backed onto the road again, this time taking the lead. For a painstaking heartbeat Bulkhead didn't respond, his wheels gyrating against the road before he sped after the other mech. Before her guardian could reply, an anxious swoon exited the radio feed.

On the scout's behalf, Rafael translated, "'Don't you think that writing about us will jeopardize our existence?'"

"Nah." Trying to catch Bulkhead off guard was a game of hers—a clash of wills—to see if she could make the bolder-than-brass Autobot sweat._ Do giant robots sweat at all_? the teenager pondered absently. Not that it mattered; it was just a figure of speech. After the Scraplet incident at their headquarters, Miko delighted in riling Bulkhead. The best part was that he didn't mind, and seemed to catch on to her game.

_Score_—_Miko: two, Bulkhead: still zero_, she mentally noted whilst administering a reassuring pat to the steering wheel. "Mr. Thompson just gave me this really long talk about taking history seriously. He then told me that I would probably do well in a creative writing class, which is pretty much the nicest compliment that old sod has ever given me. Today was just a whole bunch of weird events one after the other," Miko tacked on, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"Really?" Progressively Bulkhead was making the transition from overprotective to easygoing. He seemed to recover from the shock and was easing back into the conversation, realizing what Miko was playing at.

A glance out the window told the quirky teenager that they were roughly a mile from the Autobots' base. About thirty more seconds of driving.

"Yeah," Miko mused, scrunching up her nose distastefully. The venom in her next sentence was almost tangible: "Vince wasn't in school today. Shame, really, 'cause I had a present for that son of a bit—"

Static sputtered from Bulkhead's radio, the Cybertronian version of a hack. Never one to miss something undisclosed, patiently she leaned against the steering wheel and waited for the massive mech to finish wheezing. Once his voice modulator receded into tense silence, Miko absently thumbed a dial on the dashboard. Devilish glee illuminated her irises as the teenager leaned closer and sweetly asked, "You know something, don't you?"

"What? O-Of course not!" the monster truck blustered. A gush of cool air trickled from the vents alongside the dashboard, and Miko's beam widened until she looked like a distant cousin of the Cheshire Cat. It didn't take much brainpower to realize that the cooling fans were a systematic response to rising temperatures. Already a silvery bead of sweat was rolling down the bridge of her nose, proof of her initial theory. Long conclusion short: if Bulkhead was heating up, then he was lying. "I don't know anything about that human punk or what happened to him the night before!"

Still leering triumphantly at her metallic warden, Miko scooted nearer until poised at the edge of the seat. "No offense, 'Bulk, but you're a terrible liar—"

"We're back!" The relief in Bulkhead's voice was glaringly obvious. Without any hesitation the monster truck flung open the passenger seat's door, a clear indicator for Miko to exit (and a noticeable effort to avoid answering his charge). So engrossed had Miko been in her interrogation that the teenager hadn't noticed Bulkhead and Bumblebee driving through the entrance tunnel. Pouting a little, she slid off the cushion, listening to the clangs of her guardian reverting to his bipedal posture. Similarly Bumblebee had adapted his preferred form, already kneeling next to Rafael and nudging him with an extended finger.

Perhaps their near-crash had done a bit more damage that her friend had let on, because he was wincing and protectively cradling his sling. Behind his square glasses the boy's eyes were narrowed, teeth similarly grit. A pinch of worry and guilt jetted through her veins like liquid fire. Biting her upper lip, the girl reached Rafael's side in six bounds and slung an arm around his good shoulder. The result wasn't pretty: he cringed and mumbled a quiet protest under his breath.

"What's up?" demanded Miko apprehensively.

Edging away from her reassuring grip, the shorter of the two humans shook his tousled hair. "I'm fine," Rafael stammered, clutching his sling too tightly to convince Miko otherwise. "I just leaned into the seat funny and—"

Bumblebee's frantic, electrical cries cut him off. Optics tapering to teal slits, the scout clicked frantically at Bulkhead. The colossal brown-green mech frowned and shook his helm. "Sorry, 'Bee, but I don't exactly have a doctorate in medicine. I've never been to call…collar…calm…hey, Miko"—the former Wrecker's gaze flitted to her—"what's that place called?"

"College," she answered, stepping into Bulkhead's shadow and gazing imploringly at the towering Cybertronian. "Where's Ratchet? Maybe he could run scans on Raf and make sure that he's not too banged up."

Instead of Bumblebee or Bulkhead answering, the rejoin came from behind, calm, cool, and collected: "Ratchet is currently the Cybertronian equivalent of…'grounded.'"

Stepping in the group's direction was the slim, lithe figure of Arcee. While several heads shorter than her teammates, the temperamental femme was easily a force to be reckoned with, regardless of height. Today, however, her faceplates were twitching southward in a facial expression akin to a frown, giving Arcee the aura of someone who was gloomy. Scratch that; "gloomy" was too cheerful of a word choice. Downright _miserable_ was a far more apt candidate, a fact that Miko registered with sympathy.

"'Grounded'?" Rafael repeated, spared long enough of the twinge in his wrist to ask.

Evasively Arcee crouched before Rafael and studied him. Doubt momentarily flared in her optics before forcefully being replaced with concern. Her servos palming the ground, she craned the cords in her neck to get a closer look. "Where did you get the cast and sling? I thought that you refused to go to the hospital."

Rafael offered a tentative look in response. "Jack didn't want me to go home without something to hold my wrist in place, so he went into his mom's medicine cabinet and found some gauze."

"Good thing, too," Miko heartily chipped in while she leaned against Bulkhead's leg. Arms crossed, the teenage girl tipped her head to one side in a more relaxed gesture. "Raf told _me_ that Jack told _him_ how Ms. Darby taught _Jack _basic first aid when she came home from a hospital shift one time. Said his mom was 'possessed' after she saw a few kids get in an accident."

"But wouldn't you know that already?" Bulkhead questioned Arcee while he imitated Miko's posture—a subconscious habit developed from hanging around the energetic girl. "You dropped off Jack _and_ Raf last night." Bumblebee chipped in with an array of vibrant beeps that expressed his dislike of the previous night's decision. It had only been under Jack's unfaltering tenacity and Rafael's calming assurance that the yellow scout had caved.

"I wouldn't." The reply was snapped. Discontentedly Arcee sighed, "Jack wheeled me into his garage as soon as we pulled up because he insisted on walking Rafael home. I only saw Jack this morning when I drove him to his job."

"Huh," the thickset mech mused, shrugging the metal lining his rotator cups. "Explains a lot."

_Explains why Arcee looks so depressed_, wordlessly Miko cottoned on. The absence of one Jack Darby was enough to leave her feeling somewhat sullen, too.

Into her full height Arcee rose, the silver femme pursing her lips. Momentarily she swapped a glance with Bulkhead before speaking. Instead of smooth English, however, electronic clicks and foreign words exited her audials. Having heard Cybertronian spoken before, Miko at once recognized the language. Exactly _what_ they were saying was an entirely different cup of tea.

Just as easily Bulkhead responded, the burst of Cybertronian sounding gruff yet fluent.

"Hey!" Pigtails bounced against her shoulders as she rapped a knuckle against her guardian's pede. "That's not fair! You know we can't understand intergalactic lingo."

"Precisely," Arcee answered, sharing a rapid dialogue with Bulkhead before whirling around in the opposite direction. "I wouldn't worry too much about your wrist. While I'm no medic, your internals are coming back as fine on my scans. It's just sore." With a backward glance over her shoulder the silvery femme commented, "You know, Optimus won't be back from patrol for another hour, and Ratchet isn't here. Why not use the monitor to play some games?"

"_What?_"

The exclamation squawked from the two children and bulky Autobot, their tones a combination of excited, surprised, and panic-stricken. Bumblebee only whooped, as he shared Miko's enthusiasm for access to the normally out-of-bounds monitor.

"Arcee," Bulkhead called after her retreating backside, "you sure that's a good idea? You know the Doc'll scrap us if he ever learns that we used the main screen for video games."

"Don't worry." As Arcee resumed stalking down a long corridor, she raised a servo in farewell. "It'll give them something to do until Jack's shift ends at four. And"—in the dim hallway her optics glinted, vocals softening to a whisper—"it will keep them distracted for a while."

* * *

><p>Prowling through the base with feline grace, Arcee slid down the empty hallway. Telltale drips from the hydraulic lines overhead indicated a leak, something that would require repairs lest they lose Energon.<p>

Those broken pipes would have to take a backseat.

Blame gnawed at her circuitry worse than a Scraplet's teeth, prompting her to hasten her pace. After last night's screaming match, Arcee had penned herself up in her private quarters, the metallic blue 'Bot infested with emotions. Repeatedly the femme had insisted to herself, "He knows better. You had every right to be mad."

Yet the more she had reiterated her entitlement, the less convincing it sounded.

Only Prime had spoken to Ratchet since their confrontation, slipping into the medic's private quarters just before sunrise. Twenty minutes later, just as soundly, Optimus had exited the room, but not before the eavesdropping trio had caught a distraught snippet from Ratchet: "_Please_, Optimus, _no_, you can't take my—"

Before Arcee, Bumblebee, or Bulkhead had learned what _exactly_ their leader confiscated, the door slid shut. Needless to say, that gap in the conversation left a lot of room for speculation. All credit went to Bulkhead for the wild (and childishly inappropriate) scenarios he had fantasized as they had driven to pick up their charges.

Hours later it wasn't difficult for an affectionate expression to occasionally break through her wall of sullenness.

Again Arcee paused, relying more on memory of the retraced route than actual sight to guide her footsteps. It went without saying that their CMO forgave more easily than he forgot, a notion that perturbed the femme. Was the risk worth it? At this rate, the cobalt Autobot reckoned that in a few more hours her matrix might actually malfunction given the strain of her guilt.

There. She admitted it.

Every klik following their argument only served to worsen the regret. Reluctant as Arcee was to admit it, quarreling over some brash stunt was the last thing on her mind. Doubtless, the white-orange mech's actions were well out of bounds, but for her to just _snap_ at him was a little…tactless.

Then again, maybe it was for the better that she had told Ratchet off. Due to their ageless friendship, Arcee suspected that Optimus would never have found it within himself to raise his voice, no matter the severity. Maybe she had done her Prime a favor and spared him the burden.

Regardless of the conflicting feelings tangling her thoughts, it didn't change the situation at hand: outside the doors of his quarters Arcee stood, shifting the weight of her lithe frame throughout her stance. Scolding the medic in front of the others was one thing; slinking off to his room to offer an apology was another situation altogether. Acting contrite wasn't the problem, as she fully understood that she had somewhat been in the wrong; dodging Ratchet's accurately-thrown wrench was a tad beyond her range of abilities, however.

With a nervous sigh the sleekly-built femme understood that she was trekking into uncharted territory—a fact that warranted caution, if not an _epitaph _before proceeding.

Just as Arcee found the courage to raise a servo, about to knock, her hypersensitive hearing signaled in on a low voice. Senses sharpening in systematic response, she temporarily adjusted the gusts of her exvents to the lowest setting. Gears and cogs along her circuitry whirred to enhance her audio. Not to the silver-blue femme's surprise, the owner of said voice was none other than their spitfire medic. What caught Arcee off guard was the dawning realization that she wasn't the only 'Bot in turmoil:

"'You've been working too hard.' 'You need a vacation.' 'You're going to crack under the stress, old friend.' _Hmph_. Optimus can call it whatever he likes. That does not change what this really is: _enforced medical leave_." Obviously Ratchet hadn't detected his audience's presence and was vehemently griping in undertone. Clanks and the shuffle of pedes working against steel tiles gave her the impression that he was pacing. "Slagging Prime. What am I supposed to do? Banned from my own sickbay unless an emergency crops up." Metallic _clinks_ resounded from the room. "Well guess what, Optimus? There's _always an emergency around here_. Hence the reason I took this position!"

_Primus_, mused Arcee, jaws parting in astonishment, _he'll be driven to drink_. Amongst the soldiers of their faction it had always been a well-supported fact that Ratchet would go to work even if his limbs were ripped clean off. Even _Optimus_ knew this to be candid information, which baffled the slender femme further. Either their leader truly did believe that Ratchet's health merited a vacation, or this was a darker, more sadistic side to their Prime that none of them were privy to. Pulling rank and stripping him of his duties was a shrewd punishment.

_Clang!_

Automatically Arcee's processor focused on the crescendo of metallic clicks. Straightening out of her tense pose, she stretched the wires running vertically along her frame and midriff. Lurking in such an awkward position had caused the wires to knot.

_Weird_. Trepidation oozed across her neural net as Arcee extended a servo. _If Ratchet isn't permitted to work, then what in the Pit is he doing?_

Time to find out.

All caution discarded, she shoved open the paneled door and thrust her chassis invasively into the medic's quarters. And stared. Were it not for her personal vitals stacked at the corner of her HUD, Arcee might have believed this to be some insane byproduct of a stasis lock. Or a bizarre dream cycle. Or a postmortem vision sent by Cybertron's god.

Gawking back at her was Ratchet, digits clenched around a screwdriver. The mech had his spine turned to a workbench he had obviously been hovering over mere seconds before. Fruitlessly his vocalizer attempted to form intelligible words and only managed to sputter white noise. Their optics locked, the medic's gaze a fusion of reproach —and fear.

Fear, as if caught in the middle of some unspeakable act.

Because there, lying innocently before Ratchet's pedes, was Rafael's broken laptop.

Understanding poured into her thoughts. Trust her faulty vocals to utter the first thing that came to mind: "You're fixing his computer?"

Another agonizing astrosecond passed before Ratchet's normal functions returned, full throttle. Scowling at Arcee, the white and orange Cybertronian hastily plucked the pathetic little device off of the floor. With great care he deposited the laptop from his free palm onto the desk amidst a clutter of other tools. Armor plates stiffening, the medic whirled around, hands on his hips. Against the brunt of his glare Arcee remained stock-still and eyed him in a new light.

Dumbstruck, she repeated, "You're fixing his computer?"

Tone dripping with pure irony, Ratchet answered, "No. I'm just admiring all thirty-seven pieces of it that little whelp created." A servo idly travelled toward his helm to massage a tense node beneath the armor. Aka, the alien robot version of a temple. Still regarding Arcee suspiciously, the heavily-built mech twirled the screwdriver between his fingers and scowled. Under his breath Ratchet muttered what sounded akin to a complaint. Not quite hearing him, she uneasily murmured, "Come again?"

"It's not the same," muttered Ratchet, sagging a little.

"'Not the same'?" Arcee repeated.

Frustration flared in his optics for the briefest of seconds before the medic growled, "This blasted screwdriver." Beneath her questioning glimpse the CMO elaborated, "Optimus took my wrench."

"Oh." _Well, now I can put some of Bulk's theories to rest_. "Part of your…'extended vacation,' I presume?"

"_Presume_ my aft!" In full blown rant Ratchet turned his broad backside to the azure femme, meanwhile busying his hands with tools that Arcee couldn't quite see. "By the Allspark, how am I going to get anything done? I _needed_ that. But, _no_. Prime wouldn't hear it!" Adopting a low timbre, he dropped his audials several octaves to impersonate their leader: "'The strain is taking its toll on you, Ratchet. Forgive me for my oversight; I should have seen the signs. A week of rest ought to put your mind at ease.' The only _strain_ I'm under right now is this Primus-forsaken lockdown, and why? Because I bent over backward for the children! And Optimus blames my behavior on stress. _Ha_."

Expression hidden from her line of sight, it was impossible to guess what the crotchety medic was really thinking. Biased as he was, Arcee knew from experience that there was more to the mech than meets the eye. Very little ever succeeded to rile him like this. Having known him for centuries, it was fairly easy to tell apart his regular surliness from sincere distress. She refrained from answering, too uncertain to know how to approach Ratchet. To the Pit, there was still a large part of her processor that wanted to continue chewing him out.

Once, twice, Arcee braced herself with a softened sigh before padding toward him. As expected, Ratchet flinched when she rested a servo on his expansive shoulder. Refusing to pull away, she kindly noted, "There's no denying what you did was foolish."

A snort. "Try 'idiotic.'"

A smile quirked over her mouthplate's features. "Fine. That was incredibly, unbelievably, _undeniably_ the most idiotic—"

With a jerk Ratchet escaped her grip and made an about-face. "_Now_ you're just pushing it." Humor contradicted his words, a tiny spark next to the dark void still dominating his countenance.

"Look," the steel-blue warrior persisted, her tone level, "if something was bothering you, why didn't you just say so? Glitch," Arcee mildly accused, "'Bulk, 'Bee, and I could have found a better solution than yours. All you had to do was ask, and we would have helped the kids, too—"

"Arcee," curtly Ratchet intervened while he folded his arms over his spark chamber. "Forgive me if I'm not particularly inclined to talk about it." That said, he shifted to the right slightly and went back to working on the laptop as if she wasn't there.

Like a slap to the face, Arcee couldn't help but feel somewhat stung by his reluctance to speak. Amidst the clinks and clatters of Ratchet's resumed construction, the sleek Cybertronian warrior raced to reassemble her thoughts.

A change of tactics was in order.

"Admit it."

"Admit what?" Although he refused to look at her, the white and orange medic was at least engaging in conversation.

Closer Arcee approached, brushing flanks as she hovered over Ratchet's shoulder. Deft hands focused on rewiring frayed circuits and chipped panels. Only did his servos falter when he swapped between the remedial tools that Optimus hadn't seized. Shards of what might have been useless metal and glass were strewn about the bench. To her, they appeared beyond repair, yet Ratchet was nimbly soldering, splicing, and reattaching various parts to the sad remains of Rafael's laptop.

With a knowing little smile Arcee leaned forward, entertained by the way his entire frame stiffened as the soft arch of her lips grazed his left sound receptor. Cornered like a glitch-mouse, Ratchet froze. Not a circuit stirred. Breathing onto the responsive audial, smugly Arcee declared, "You have a soft spot for the kids."

Dim clatters echoed from where the irritable mech set aside his equipment, all work ethics forgotten. Judging by the way his EM field pulsed as her physician stepped back a pace, the remark had struck a nerve. Optic-to-optic he sent a nettled glare in her direction, only further evidence that Arcee was right.

"First of all, don't do that ever again," he testily ordered. Arms settled over their familiar location: folded across his chassis.

"Sorry, Doc"—unconcernedly Arcee shrugged and shuttered her optics—"but I had to get your attention _somehow_."

"There are better ways than stimulating my interface protocols." Now it was Ratchet's turn to offer a haughty stare when the femme cringed. Whatever the scenario, that slagging 'Bot was always able to say such sensitive information without the awkwardness most sentient beings (human or Cybertronian) experienced at the straightforward terminology. Damn the medic in him for turning the tables.

Before Arcee could brace herself for the medical lecture that she predicted would follow, Ratchet unwittingly opened the floor for her next attack: "_Really_, Arcee, you're as mature as a youngling. Evidence that you spend far too much time with Jack."

"I could say the same about you," retaliated the female Cybertronian. Servos planted on her hips, teasingly Arcee crowed, "You may as well get the adoption papers ready."

Only to have Ratchet fire back, "The day I call those brats 'mine' is the day I ask Knock Out for a wax and polish."

"Knowing that 'Con, he'll make sure to be extra_ thorough_."

Intermingled exasperation and wry pleasure crossed his features as the medic waved their banter aside and huffed. Absently a servo strayed back toward the workbench, digits automatically clutching at a welding torch. Half of his concentration and gaze were directed toward Arcee as Ratchet grunted, in better spirits than before, "Did you come here to accuse me of fawning over the children, or did you actually want something?" Systematically he began to reach for another stray tool, his concentration beginning to divert back to his project. "If not, I would like to return to my imprisonment—"

Gentle arms suddenly crushed around his abdomen. For a second time the white and orange mech froze, peripheral sensors activating along his neural net at the impulsive touch. Disregarding all forethought, Arcee had hugged the medic, hoping that the gesture would convey all the things she felt but didn't want to waste time saying. Heat flushed between the metal coating of their frames, hers sleek and his sturdy. Strangely enough, the femme couldn't help but feel like a sparkling, wrapped in the comforting embrace.

Nanokliks ticked by, a heartbeat of heavy quiet, before Ratchet urged himself to return the deed. However brief it was, Arcee knew her action spoke louder than words, and was pleased to see Ratchet looking a bit calmer when he stood back.

That relief quickly turned to abortive when the medic clicked open a panel on his right arm and began to scan her.

Gaping, she anxiously began to protest, "What's wrong?" only to be quieted by a hiss. More obstinately: "Ratchet, what the in the Pit are you doing?"

"Shut up, would you?" Finally the mech poked at a switch engraved in his medical equipment, terminating the scan in a flicker of dissipating neon light. "I was double-checking for malfunctioning components in your systems. The Arcee I know doesn't throw her arms around other Autobots."

Scandalized contractions lined Arcee's face in a look of amusement. Mock anger twined around her voice modulator as the silver-blue femme sighed, "Figures. Some things _never _change." Turning to exit his private quarters, she was halted when Ratchet called her back.

Part sincere, part jesting, Ratchet's faceplates furrowed with portentous declaration as the medic warned, "Just because I don't have my wrench does not mean my aim is hindered. This conversation never happened. Understood?"

Arching her brows, Arcee repeated in a feigned daze, "What conversation?"

He smirked: "Exactly."

Refraining from chuckling, she idly waved a servo in farewell before slipping back into the shadowy depths of the hallway. To herself Arcee chimed, _Thank Primus, things are back to normal_.

Or whatever constituted as their definition of "normal."

Jack's shift wouldn't be over for several hours, and there was still that broken pipe with her name on it…

* * *

><p>Crouching by the paneled door still wide open, a lone, tiny silhouette watched from the dark recesses. Bright eyes illuminated the shady corridor, accompanied by a synthetic light projecting from the handheld device the girl carried.<p>

Digital images configured on the cell phone's panel, seconds later forming into a colorful image of two Cybertronians embracing each other.

_Blackmail_.

Who cared if eavesdropping was considered morally wrong? Thank her impeccable timing that the pigtailed teenager arrived just in time to witness The Hug; an event so momentous that it deserved to be capitalized. All three dozen clips now recorded on her phone with amazing clarity, outlining _every_—_single_—_humiliating_—_detail_.

For Miko Nakadai, Christmas had come early.

One last time the Japanese youth coveted the treasure before flipping her precious cell phone shut. Grinning from ear to ear, Miko u-turned and stealthily retreated toward the base's main room.

To herself the girl whispered, "This is _so_ going on Facebook."

She had work to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: 7902 words. No matter how hard I try to shorten each chapter, they just keep getting progressively longer and longer. I hope none of you are tired of reading so much in one go. My bad.

The jokes about grades and school stemed from many bizarre conversations with teachers, classmates, and my sister. In fact, when I was about five, I used to wholeheartedly believe that teachers lived in their classrooms and had beds in their storage closets that would magically spring out when the door was opened. The idea of a teacher leaving his or her classroom, in my mind, was unheard of. So you can imagine how my underdeveloped five-year-old brain reacted when one day I saw my favorite teacher at the local supermarket. I thought that she had been fired and I cried for a good hour or so before my mom patiently dispelled my wild theory that teachers didn't have social lives, just their jobs.

The name of Miko's jerk professor is just that; a name. His namesake, whom I borrowed it from, is one of the best teachers in the entire universe.

By the way, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to **all of you**, my faithful readers, for giving me boundless support and wishing me well after my injury (which has healed up, I might add). Thank you, once again, for being awesome. Keep up the great work.

To torture you guys a little further, I think I'll give you the name of the next segment.

_Chapter Seven: Pizza and Parental Guidance_


	8. Pizza and Parental Guidance

**Author's Note**: Three words: YOU GUYS ROCK. That is all. That, and I had a bit too much fun writing this._ Squee!_ The glorious internet shall be resurrected today, sometime in the afternoon.

There are quite a few references in this chapter, including ones from episodes _Darkness Rising, Part 1_, _Metal Attraction_, and _Crisscross_.

**Disclaimer**: The most evil word in the English dictionary is the bolded one to the left. You know which one I'm talking about.

**Warnings**: Collaborative conspiring should never be recreated, so please, _I beg you_, don't do anything that the kids would. Otherwise, it might lead to a scenario involving the police, many awkward questions, and lots of dull paperwork.

**Rating**: May I invite you to take a look at chapters one—six for further clarification?

**Summary**: Ms. Darby is the world's greatest soccer mom.

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven: <strong>Pizza and Parental Guidance<strong>

By Miko's definition, the word _party_ translated to "four hours of nonstop video games followed by dinner."

So it went without saying that the "party" had to be relocated when Optimus adamantly denied her permission to order takeout. According to the Autobot leader, they could not afford to have their existence revealed by a delivery boy. Further to the kids' bewilderment, he had added with a touch of unease, "It wouldn't bode over well if we startled him so badly that he simply left the food without his payment."

However much the black-haired girl had tried to argue otherwise, Optimus Prime would not budge.

Hence why Miko, Rafael, and Jack were now crowded around a cedar table with three pizza boxes between them.

Fondly Ms. Darby regarded Jack's friends, pleased that after _weeks _of trying to convince him to bring them over, he had relented. In the time following her discovery of the Cybertronians with whom Jack associated, her son had begged, pleaded, and protested against the very thought of inviting his friends to their house. When June had cornered him one evening and demanded an answer, sheepishly Jack had said, "Really, Mom, I don't think Miko and Raf would like organic tofu or reruns of _Gray's Anatomy_."

The taller woman repressed her disagreement, even now. Organic tofu was incredibly healthy in comparison to the greasy things she had watched Jack wolf down, or the five Monsters Miko had somehow managed to guzzle without post-consumption vomiting. And medical dramas were just that—dramas. Really, there wasn't anything wrong with watching hospital shows. After all, June was a nurse, and the theory behind some of the episode's plots was genuinely fascinating.

The rest of the program was unadulterated entertainment. Nothing more, nothing less.

With a savage rip, Miko tore a mouthful of cheese, sauce, and crust from her slice. Between ravenous chomps the pigtailed girl stated, "We 'ould show 'yth'sters ooh the 'Bots 'nd have 'em do stuff like 'aht too—"

"Miko," interrupted Jack over Rafael's near-inaudible snicker, "you need to chew first. You know we can't understand what you're saying. Even Raf can't make out a word, and he has lengthy conversations with _Bumblebee_."

Politely Ms. Darby reminded the exchange student, "Just because I know the Heimlich maneuver doesn't mean I want to have to use it, dear."

With her mouthful the cheeky teenager grinned, bringing to June's mind the brief image of a hamster with bulging cheeks. At last swallowing the massive portion down her esophagus, Miko propped her elbows atop the wooden surface. "I said," she eagerly explained, "that we should introduce the 'Bots to MythBusters and see if they'd be interested in attempting some of the more _explosive_ myths. It could be our only chance to find out if Energon is microwaveable."

While her son and Rafael brightened at Miko's proposition, Ms. Darby frowned apprehensively. Disquiet reverberated from her as the black-haired woman rejoined, "Wasn't doing some sort of stunt what caused Rafael to break his wrist the first time?"

In response the bespectacled boy scooted his chair closer, expression reassuring. "Don't worry, Ms. Darby," the twelve-year-old insisted, "we'll wear helmets this time and everything."

"Besides"—Jack's tone had gone up an octave with undisguised panic—"last time was an accident. _Right, guys?_"

"Right," echoed the other two children in agreement, Miko's response impish and Rafael's, to an extent, sullen.

Every urge to probe clamored for her attention. As a mother, Ms. Darby had her worries. All parents did. But especially her. Permitting Jack to own a motorcycle was a decision that had haunted June Darby for several months. Discovering that said motorcycle was a member of an advanced alien race had increased her fears by tenfold. Listening to their explanation of how Rafael had fractured his carpal bones, however, was pushing it. While the trio had claimed that the injury was from "lobbing with Bulkhead"—whatever that meant—the young adult wasn't ready to dismiss their explanation just yet. Years spent overseeing patients with a wide assortment of abrasions meant that she could tell one from another.

And the red, thinly-sliced mark that went unbadanged on Rafael's right elbow looked suspiciously knife-made. Anxious as she was, June didn't want to wheedle the truth from them, not if the kids were trying so hard to remain discreet. Of course, Rafael had repeatedly stated to her that he had gotten the injury examined. But Ms. Darby wasn't so sure of that story, either.

There was a reason why the expression went, _Moms have eyes on the back of their heads_.

Penetrating gaze studying the children, she took a draught of her Pepsi. Given the first opportunity, June had full intentions to march over to the Autobots' base and grill the first one she saw. Robotic extraterrestrial or not, the slender woman wanted answers, and she wanted them now. It went without saying that when Ms. Darby was determined, the only thing that could stop her was being tied up by a sadistic metal spider with a fondness for sport hunting.

On said scenario she could speak from firsthand experience.

Subjected to Miko's puppy-eye look, the older woman could only bite her upper lip before relenting. "Just be careful."

Excited whoops leaped from her widespread jaws. It was impossible to not beam at the teenage girl's blinding joy. Similarly her son returned Miko's enthusiasm in the form of a broad grin. Call it a sixth sense or PSE, but in the middle of Jack's and Miko's avid chatter the black-haired woman felt a faint disturbance. Nothing managed to escape Ms. Darby's sharp eyes, so it wasn't difficult to spot Rafael's pause amidst the others' jubilee.

Before June could form a question, the Japanese girl was already leaning across the table to playfully nudge Rafael's right shoulder. Over its timber surface she dangerously bended, hands missing a plastic cup by inches. "Hey, Raf, what's up? I thought you'd be over the moon. You were the one who suggested it a week ago."

Whatever the reason, Rafael didn't appear to mind having his personal space so abruptly violated. Either the boy was too deep in thought to be bothered, Ms. Darby noted, or he was accustomed to Miko's brazen approach. As if dragging the answer out of his chest, slowly the brunette exhaled and nibbled at the crust of his pizza. No longer did the pizza provide a means of distraction, because he abandoned the cooked dough in favor of talking. Right to the point, Rafael tentatively requested, "Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure." Jack inclined his head and settled against the back of his chair, but not without hoisting Miko rearward by the rim of her shirt. A muffled_ thump_ came from where her rump reconnected with the seat.

The depth of her son's concern for Rafael momentarily left her glowing with pride. It wasn't often that mothers could brag about having such sensitive sons. Thankfully, June Darby was the exception.

Drawing her back into the discussion was the brown-haired child's question—nervous, hopeful, uncertain. "Well…I wanted your opinion on something."

Again the eldest child nodded, affectionately ribbing Rafael with his next words: "You already said that, so what's on your mind?" Against all visible temptations, Miko was making an effort to stave off her usual overexcitement long enough to focus on him. Even June couldn't help shifting closer to better support Jack's friend. To the young woman, Rafael and Miko were like family, the adopted kids who frequently popped in, coated in grime, buzzing over their newest exploits with the Autobots. The unlikely trio were a clash of personalities that perfectly complimented each other, and she couldn't help but fuss over each—Miko's quirkiness, Rafael's innocence, and her own son's diehard loyalty.

Drawn out of her interpretive thoughts by Rafael's answer, June instantly snapped to attention: "It's just…I've been doing a lot of thinking—"

"Like _that's_ anything new," snorted the raven-haired adolescent, hushed a second later by Jack's annoyed look. Only patience exuded from Ms. Darby, parental instincts alone sending worry throughout her body like wildfire.

Out of habit Rafael tugged nervously at the sling binding his injured arm. _Strange_. Nagging musings darted across her conscience faster than she could ignore them. Off to the side June noted, _The bandage around his arm looks exactly like the ones I keep in the bathroom. His parents must have purchased the same brand as I did_.

Only_ she_ would ever make an observation as trivial as that—a thought that made Ms. Darby inwardly purse her lips.

"Anyway," continued Rafael, undeterred, his pace tripling as the bespectacled boy rushed to get it over with, "I wanted to think of a way to do something nice for Ratchet since he first fixed me up after the l-lobbing accident, so I was hoping that you might have…um…suggestions."

Tired breaths tumbled from his open jaws. Honestly, June was rather surprised that he had managed to utter all thirty-two words in a staggering six seconds. For such a shy and soft-spoken boy, Rafael far from lacked the capability to chatter as swiftly as Miko.

Another observation that came with age made its way into her mind. Stuttering could translate to a numberless quantity of things, chiefly nervousness, fatigue, pain, guilt, or any combination of the four. The fact that Rafael had stammered on the word _lobbing_ reassured Ms. Darby to a degree, because it meant that he wasn't a practiced liar.

Nevertheless, it also indicated that their version of how he had obtained his injuries was false—further meriting an investigation.

Silence was Miko's and Jack's response. By the looks on their faces, they couldn't have been more shocked if Rafael had announced a sudden desire to go on _America's Got Talent_ as an interpretive dancer.

Hawkishly June regarded her son, long enough to transmit the telepathic message: _Jackson Darby, if don't stop staring right this second I'll ground you until you're my_ _age_.

Sometimes being a single mother had its perks. Besides, this was evidently something that was weighing heavily on the twelve-year-old's thoughts, and she didn't want Jack and Miko discouraging Rafael.

However unusual of a request it was.

Having firsthand met and spoken with the Autobots' high-and-mighty medic, June could understand the others' reaction. No amount of civil small talk could ever garner her more than a snort and single-worded answer. That was_ if_ she managed to catch Ratchet on a good day; most of the time he outright ignored June when she paid occasional visits to their base. To herself the woman commented amidst their continuous silence, _Not exactly a trait any woman would find appealing in a man or mech_.

Amazing, really, how alike humans and Cybertronians behaved.

Under the pressure of her wordless _do-it-or-else_ glare, Jack blinked at Rafael. At last locating his vocal cords, he attempted to phrase his thoughts and respond. What came out of her son's mouth was a squeak that sounded akin to nervous laughter.

Instead Miko came to with a high-pitched exclamation: "You want to do something nice for the Hatchet? Have you lost your marbles?"

So much for encouragement.

To try and salvage the situation, June kindly stretched out her hand and grazed against Rafael's. At the reassuring touch, he perked up a little an eyed her strangely beneath his circular lenses. "What did you have in mind?" murmured the long-haired woman.

Shooting Miko a concise, offended look, Rafael squirmed free of the contact and hung his arm limply at his side. "You know, it just struck me that maybe it wouldn't hurt to show some…appreciation. And I couldn't think of anything to _do_ for him, since I'd likely get under his feet. And considering how tall Ratchet is, I _really_ don't want to get stepped on."

Finally Jack hauled himself out of his prolonged stupefaction. As the older boy twirled the straw in his Pepsi-filled cup, he mused, all incredulousness abandoned, "What was it he said on the first day at Autobot HQ?"

"That he might _squish_ us," giggled Miko in an effort to positively contribute. Despite her mirth, some lingering doubt filled her voice; not that Ms. Darby could blame her entirely.

Now eagerly engaged in his problem, Rafael piped up, "I thought about buying him something, but what am I supposed get for an advanced thousand-years-old robot?"

"A dinosaur fossil," suggested Jack. His offhanded tone didn't fool any of them, especially after her son explained with artificial casualness, "He might appreciate the sentiment behind it."

"Like what?" scoffed Miko. Fist stuffed in her mouth to repel the oncoming laughter, the bright-eyed girl conveyed around her knuckles, "That he should be at the Smithsonian in the exhibit next to it?"

Regardless of Rafael's tries to maintain a straight face, a contradictory grin was forcing its way across his lips, dimpling the brown-haired boy's cheeks. Unsuccessfully her son tried to restrain his laugh, resulting in Jack choking partially on his soda. All seriousness aside, Miko had doubled over and pressed her forehead against the tabletop. While unable to see the teenager's face, the pinpoint twitches across her heaving backside told Ms. Darby that Miko had howled herself to muteness.

As the pigtailed girl tried to recover from her bout, Jack cracked an easy smile. After sparing a second to pilfer another slice, he sloppily deposited the pizza on his plate. Ms. Darby contented herself with watching as he offered, "Just get him a thank you card."

"Nah." Tears still glistened along Miko's eyelashes from where she had cried with glee. "That's way too cheesy, Jack. How about a new wrench?"

While June Darby relatively agreed with the second option (due to its less offensive nature), Jack opposed it vehemently by the means of a sarcastic rebuttal: "Sure, why not? Let's give Ratchet _another _thing to throw at us when he's going through robot PMS."

The hesitant visage Rafael wore spoke on behalf of his disagreement, whereas Miko opted for a verbal one: "Come to think of it, I read somewhere that thank you cards are much more sentimental. And safe."

The nurse's mild disapproval of her son's choice in vocabulary was outrivaled by her chagrined exclamation: "Wait, he_ throws _things at you?"

"Yeah, but don't worry about it, Mom. He always misses because we're so small." Already Jack was reaching for a fourth helping of pepperoni pizza. How he managed to compensate for his slow metabolism still mystified Ms. Darby.

Though Rafael had brightened considerably at his friends' advice, to June he still bore an expression that was grateful, but not yet satisfied with any given idea. Just as the nurse prepared to offer a suggestion, an all too familiar ring chorused from her coat pocket. The ringtone was strident and demanding, the perfect epitome of her current reproach toward the hospital.

To the group of chattering kids she signaled for a moment to answer her job. Dismissing herself, June Darby strolled from the table into the kitchen. Upon separating herself from Jack, Miko, and Rafael, with a final vexed sigh the long-haired woman took the call. "June Darby speaking."

"It's Sanders." From the receiver came a weary grunt proceeded by a rich New York accent. "You-Know-Who just got here."

"Voldemort?" June wryly inquired.

A tired chuckle answered her. "Close. Susan pulled in ten minutes ago and is screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Can't exactly blame her. Normally I wouldn't bother you when you're not on shift"—off in the background came an aggravated snarl followed by several timid replies—"but as you can see, Susan ain't happy. She wants all staff who were working last night here on the pronto."

Mirroring her coworker's weariness, Ms. Darby nodded to herself. "Got it. I'll be there in fifteen."

Another unintelligible round of yelling filtered through the cell phone, accompanied by the male nurse's unhelpful advice: "I'd make it ten if I were you."

Already feeling drained by the prospect, June informed him with like apprehension, "I'll see you soon," before ending the call.

More out of idiosyncrasy that actual need, Ms. Darby ran a hand through her curtain of black hair. Muscles along her jawline twitched at the conjured mentality of her scream-first-ask-questions-later employer. Subjecting herself to God knew how many hours of ranting was going to give her gray hairs faster than Jack's antics would.

So it was that another chance to spend time with her son and his friends was stolen.

Air built up inside her windpipe as she inhaled, counted to ten, and released the tension and breath simultaneously. Best to get it over with as soon as possible. Upon reentering the living room, June wasn't altogether shocked to find the three of them immersed in an entirely new discussion.

"Jack," June called, shelving her exhaustion as she bypassed the cedar table, "I need to go to work. Will you three be okay on your own for a few hours?"

A laidback "Duh" came from Miko, echoed by Rafael's and Jack's chorus of, "Yep."

Absently the young adult smiled as she hastened for the foyer and busied herself with collecting the necessities.

_Car keys? Check. Coat? Check. Children? Accounted for. Headache? Definitely._

Glancing their way once more brought to her attention the pizza box and near-empty two liter bottles strewn between the kids. "Don't forget to take out the trash."

Strays locks of hairs drifted across Jack's forehead as he swung his gaze in Ms. Darby's direction. "I will, Mom," her son promised.

"Hey, Ms. Darby, if you don't mind me asking, why do you have to work?" Miko asked with interest.

While the tall woman busied herself with her purse, she stated, annoyance sliding through her tone, "A claim was filed this morning for a missing ambulance allegedly hijacked last night by some teenage boy, according to eyewitnesses. The hospital is starting an investigation, but it's pointless. I was covering that shift and I know for fact that all of the emergency vehicles were accounted for." Without really thinking about it she glanced temporarily at the children. Each face was identical in the fact that it was gaping. Normally June would have taken a moment to ask why they looked so shocked, but corporate arrival was a pressing issue that required her presence.

Just as Ms. Darby began to slip out the front door, she overhead snatches of bizarre dialogue whispered by the kids.

"You don't think—?"

"There's no way."

"How many other ambulances do we know?"

Automatically June was carried by her feet across the walkway. Without registering the transition, the raven-haired woman found herself behind the wheel of her car, keys already being thrust into the ignition. Eyes focusing on the rearview mirror, Ms. Darby's foot hovered over the gas pedal in preparation to depart when a loud voice forestalled her: "Wait!"

Bounding along the pavement was Rafael, his good shoulder rolling in sync with the hasty hurdles he undertook. Welcomingly June rolled down the window to accommodate the smaller boy. Panting, he slowed to a stop along the passenger's side and beseechingly held her gaze. The exertion must have bothered his wrist, because he was wincing. Nevertheless Rafael lingered on the edge of speech before bursting out, "What should I do, Ms. Darby?"

"About Ratchet?" His crestfallen nod confirmed the topic at hand. Never once redirecting her line of sight, June soothed, "You don't have to get him anything expensive or extravagant. You're over thinking it." The teasing drew Rafael's chin up, his outlook desperately hopeful. "The best gifts," June continued as she pulled against the seatbelt to lean toward the window, "are the ones that come from here." Gently she prodded the short boy in the chest. "From the heart."

It reassured her to at last see his expression transmogrify from despairing to resolute. Satisfied that she had helped in some way, Ms. Darby repeated her goodbye before backing out. Down the street the vehicle traveled, the dull thrum of its engine reminding June that it would need at inspection soon.

One departing glance at the rearview mirror showed her the lone silhouette of Rafael, faced tipped toward a sky studded with stars, before the boy skipped toward the house in a more optimistic display than before.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: The account I mentioned of Miko not puking up Monster was lovingly inspired by my friend who one time drank seven Red Bulls. The only difference was that she didn't share Miko's iron stomach.

Instead of a spoiler of the next chapter's title, I wanted to do a bit of "subtle" foreshadowing. As many of you might have noticed, I've thus far only mentioned the names of certain Cybertronians and humans. Rest assured, those certain individuals will be making appearances—much sooner than you'd think.

Have fun writhing in anguish as you attempt to guess which characters will be cropping up. Meanwhile, I'll sit back and watch you all suffer.

'Cause I'm totally evil like that.


	9. Fowler Does Not Approve

**Author's Note**: I am _so, so, so, so, so, so, so sorry _for the lack of updates. School has kept me busy, and with my hands tied behind my back I've found that it's increasingly difficult to type. Just to give you an idea of what my schedule is like and how hectic it is, in the last three weeks I've taken nearly half a dozen ecological field studies to the local park, where my classmates and I attempted to capture, tag, and release grasshoppers—_in the middle of a thunderstorm_.

I hope that the wait was worth it. (Somehow, though, I doubt it.) I thought all of you might be interested to hear that I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the magic number ninety-two next to the Reviews section. That, and I nearly died from the sheer depth of my gratitude. Oh, I also wanted to point out that by the end of this fanfiction, I'll have starred the chapters from nearly everyone's point of view. Thus far we've seen Rafael, Ratchet, Miko, Arcee, and Ms. Darby. We won't get to every character, but close enough…

Make sure to pay a visit to the Author's Note at the bottom of the chapter for some rather juicy details regarding this story—_and others_. There's a bit of playful foreshadowing to _One Shall Fall_ and _One Shall Rise_ in this chapter! Nothing too major. There's also a reference to _Darkness Rising, Part Two_.

**Disclaimer**: 73 is the number of times I need to hit the backspace key, starting here.

**Warnings**: Do not attempt to eat or drink while reading this fanfiction, unless you want your next meal splattered all over your computer screen.

**Rating**: …R is for _Ratchet_, S is for _Soundwave_, and T is for _Totally Badass_—and _Totally Inappropriate_.

**Summary**: Liar, liar, pedes on fire.

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><p><strong>EDIT<strong>: I should have probably clarified the time frame for this chapter. (Thanks, Jalahi!) It's set late in the night roughly eight hours after the last chapter.

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><p>Chapter Eight: <strong>Fowler Does Not Approve<strong>

"Bulkhead…"

Releasing a lethargic grunt, the colossal Autobot absently batted out a servo. Contact only with empty space let the ex-Wrecker safely deem that the voice was a figment of his imagination. Protesting creaks resounded from the berth underneath as Bulkhead shifted on his side and snuggled into the bunk, already cycling back into recharge.

"Bulkhead!"

Somewhere close to his helm resonated an airy, feminine voice that was equal parts annoyed and static-laden from fatigue. Still clinging desperately to the welcoming black abyss that was sleep, the green-brown mech groaned. _It's just a dream cycle_. _Just my processor actin' fuzzy_. He would not, could not, let himself believe that the intrusive inflection was real.

Again dismissing the sound as a byproduct of recharge, Bulkhead internally pinged a command to his neural net, audial sensors tuning down several notches from the electrical pulse. Overhead a barely-detectable groan tinged the air, thankfully dimmed from the mechanical adjustments.

Unintelligible obscenities filtered through his uncaring CPU, and Bulkhead nearly paraded his joy at being able to successfully tune the intruder out. That tiny shard of jubilee was abruptly shattered when his comrade deviated a better way to rouse him. Exvents gusted across the mech's face as a tantalizing whisper pierced his auditory receptors (not to mention common sense). "Oh, _Bulkhead_. Guess who purchased front row tickets to next week's Monster Truck Rally?"

Optics snapping open, the former Wrecker was already propping himself up on sprawled arms into a hasty sitting posture. "Awesome! Arcee, you shouldn't have—" His ecstatic whoop sizzled to white noise when Bulkhead's gaze rested upon her servos, said tickets nowhere to be seen. Instantly his face fell into a patronized sulk. "Oh. You didn't." Pointedly the forest-hued mech yawned, stretching his mandible until a faint _pop_ resonated from the hinge. "Good night."

Without further ado, the oversized Autobot threw himself chassis-first onto the cot underneath, optics fluttering to a squeezed shut.

Slender digits flexed across his broad shoulders, dragging another groan out of his vocal processor. Her probing moments later changed into a sharp clout against his armor. Optics still shuttered, Bulkhead jerked away from the assault and buried his face into the berth. "C'mon, Arcee," the thickset warrior whined. "Twenty more minutes, and I swear I'll get up."

"Primus," huffed his teammate. Even without blinking up at the azure femme, Bulkhead could easily envision a sardonic smile curving across her mouth. Nudging him firmly with a servo, Arcee administered another wake-up jab to his shoulder that was equally as demanding. "Up. That's an order."

Sluggishly he sidled away, tanks churning from Energon depletion and a powerful urge to ignore the Autobot standing over him. A yawn slipped from his audials, followed instantly by a petulant remark: "Who died and made you Prime?"

"The same 'Bot who ordered me to drag your sorry aft out of bed," Arcee mused. For the second time Bulkhead onlined his optics, only to be greeted by the sight of one not-too-happy Arcee, hands perched against her hips and posture erect. Off to the side she commented, "I'd be willing to bet all our Energon that you'd sleep through an attack by Unicron." Lips pursed, the feminine soldier dealt a friendlier prod to his still-throbbing helm and vented softly. "Don't clobber the messenger, 'Bulk, unless you want to explain to Fowler while I'll be requiring medical assistance."

Reluctantly Bulkhead hefted himself upright, swinging powerful legs over the edge of the berth. Baffled sentiments registered across his faceplates as the burly mech mumbled, "Fowler's here?"

The single syllable might have carried a trace of friendliness if it weren't for the fact that he was being woken up in the middle of the night.

With a shift of her pedes, Arcee switched her arms' position from jutting against her thighs to folding across her chest. All too effortlessly Bulkhead recognized the motions, a physical gesture that transmitted her unease and annoyance. With a brief flex of his spinal strut, he propelled himself from the berth and stumbled upon making impact with the floor. Gyroscopes adjusted, still too distorted from his abruptly ended recharge. And a pity, too, considering his latest dream had consisted of Breakdown and a reenactment of _Jaws_. Who cared if Ratchet called all forms of human entertainment "bloodsport"? There was something to be said for picturing carnivorous fish stripping his rival down to the protoform.

Idly Arcee gestured for the heavyset warrior to follow, her own silhouette beginning to prowl toward the open door. Amidst the virtually nonexistent lighting the silvery femme's optics shone like sapphires. "Yeah, Fowler arrived five minutes ago, and he's thirsting for blood. Not exactly what we'd call 'great' diplomatic relations."

"Sounds like a vampire to me," Bulkhead yawned. Gently shaking his helm and the last vestige of sleep, he lumbered toward the door. "'Cept without the glittering attributes."

Even without the necessary tendons Arcee gave the distinct impression of rolling her optics. Just as her frame darted into the dim hallway, his teammate bantered back, "Just because I encouraged you to read literature doesn't mean that I want you to read _bad_ literature, 'Bulk. Let's go," Arcee murmured with a beckoning flick of her servo.

Joints along his thick frame _popped_ as Bulkhead stretched. Discharging a tired vent, the ex-Wrecker plowed after her. Out of morbid curiosity he paused, stalling himself long enough to dare a glance at his chronometer.

0400 hours.

Vaguely Bulkhead wondered if he could convince Optimus to look the other way for five minutes—long enough to disregard the "no harming humans" rule—so he could kick the crap out of their liaison.

* * *

><p>Echoing footsteps dully rang beneath Bulkhead's pedes as he strode after Arcee. Another twist, another turn down the shaded corridor, and the mech was ready to cast his dignity aside and crawl back to his berth. <em>Really<em>, he refrained from an oral rant, _what could be so fraggin' important that it couldn't wait until most sane people are awake?_

He didn't have to wait long to find out.

Even before they traipsed into the vaulted room, the two Autobots were subjected to an audio-splitting lecture that could have made Starscream cringe: "…have _any _idea how many people at the Pentagon are breathing down my neck? Out with it, Prime: what the hell happened?"

Calmly, if not somewhat strained, Optimus retaliated, "As I have informed you twice now, Agent Fowler, the events that transpired twenty-four hours ago have been attended to." After some amount of hesitation the red-and-blue Cybertronian made a remark that carried his increasing not-so-subtle frustration: "Not that it's in my place to correct you, but cursing is a highly unbecoming trait that resolves nothing."

That niggling voice in the depths of Bulkhead's processor flared at once, incanting for him to intervene—the same itching voice that got him into so much mischief as a sparkling. Unable to help himself, the colossal mech strode into view from the safe confines of the hallway. Contributing to the discussion wasn't so much a choice as it was an impulse: "Hey, cursing may not fix anything, but it sure as hell makes a mech feel good about himself."

What greeted him was a scene so surreal that Bulkhead was certain his optics had ceased functioning.

Black rings circumscribed Fowler's sunken eyes. The last time Bulkhead had witnessed a similar look, it had been on a raccoon. Leaning over the human-sized railing, shoulders hunched and teeth clenched, their tough-as-nails contact glared at Optimus. Perhaps the gesture might have looked slightly more intimidating if the African American wasn't dressed in checkered white and robin's egg blue pajamas. Were the situation not so dire, Bulkhead would have collapsed on the ground in a fit of laughter. While far from being cowed into surrender by the visual challenge, their Prime's body language still suggested worry. Reiterating a statement he had made once before, Bulkhead grumbled, _Yep. He's still got pretty big bearings…for a human_.

The distinguishing characteristic to this late night visit wasn't Fowler's garments or Optimus' torso held in a protective fashion, however. No, what earned that honorary title was the orange-and-white frame of the CMO being_ shielded by their leader_.

Watching all of this from a nearby corner was Bumblebee, servos innocently rested behind his helm in a laidback position.

It was only when the two Autobots and human turned to regard the newcomers did their heated debate pause. Jaw-dropping, Bulkhead plodded closer, a very shell-shocked Arcee at his heel. Not even every iota of nonchalance he possessed could disguise his open gawking at. Oh-so-carefully the ex-Wrecker stopped within ten feet of the Prime, just out of reach of Ratchet's fists. "Grounded" or not, the medic was subjecting Bulkhead to a glare akin to that of a soaking wet cat, with one clear, silent message: _Keep your mouth shut unless you want me to do it for you._

"So…" Vocalizer nearly clicking to the point of resetting, Arcee bit back a visible choke before addressing the government agent. "What do we owe this pleasant visit?"

"'Pleasant'?" echoed Fowler, hissing a steamy exhale like a teakettle. In a roundabout motion the human male fixated Optimus with a deeply distrustful stare. "I don't know what you guys do for shits and giggles, but being ordered to take an emergency flight at ass crack o'clock in the morning isn't my definition of 'pleasant.'" Clutching the silver railing until his fingers paled, the liaison growled, "Look, my boss ordered me to get some answers, and I'm not leaving until I get the truth."

Adjusting his stance, Optimus maintained a calmer air when he answered, "I grow tired of repeating myself, Agent Fowler. This situation has been dealt with—"

"Poorly," the squat man intervened, inching to the right by almost a foot. The seemingly harmless gesture caught Bulkhead off guard, the scene escalating further when Optimus reciprocated with an identical motion. Again Ratchet was shielded from Fowler's view, and only when the mech and human both shimmied to the left did realization strike him: Prime was purposely hiding Ratchet. By no stretch of the imagination was Optimus doing this well, but nonetheless their leader was squaring off against the human.

At the edge of his field of vision, Bulkhead watched Arcee gape, obviously coming to the same conclusion as her friend and equally as stunned.

"Maybe the people in Jasper bought the whole 'drunk kid stole a car' story that the media fed them, but my employers are far from dubious," Fowler pointed out, none too kindly. Repeating his sideways motion proved fruitless, countered easily by Optimus' stature and height. Resigned to an audience with the leader of the Autobots rather than the medic, instead Fowler drew himself upward and quivered in rage. "Let me rephrase: For three hours I've sat on a plane, dressed like _this_"—Bulkhead openly smirked when Fowler indicated his current attire—"dragged away from _my_ vacation on _my_ personal time, and now I have to listen to the great and mighty Optimus Prime tell me the same half-cocked story." Positively livid with his vexation, the liaison forced a strained breath out through his flaring nostrils. "Does that sound fair to you?"

Digits flexing, the towering mech shuttered his optics before conceding, "It does not."

_Damn_. Like it or not, Bulkhead was impressed. Guilt and manipulation were two of his favorite techniques to employ, used in battle to slip from enemy clutches or at the base to sneak in an extra Energon ration. Seeing Fowler wield both was definitely an omen for the worst, and the mech braced himself for the coming storm.

Eyebrows arched, Fowler leaned back a little in the revels of a pending victory. "During my flight, I was informed that Energon readings were detected from the vehicle involved in the hijack. An _ambulance,_ I might add." Frenzied triumph burned in the African American's eyes, enflamed by the facts he threw into the inferno. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but according to the information in the government database—information the _Autobots_ supplied, I might add—the only known Cybertronian currently registered as a search-and-rescue vehicle is the one you are currently hiding. Am I right?"

Faceplates still defiantly curled in a sneer of contempt, Ratchet shuddered and deepened his frown. This time the medic's expression bore the element of guilt. Simultaneously Optimus stiffened, his EM field pulsating with over-energized voltage. Sharp intake of vents and the hastened crank of gears indicated a collective tension amongst the assembled Cybertronians. Despite the looming consequences Bulkhead could sense, an insistently curious part of his CPU clamored for the same answer that Fowler sought, one that Ratchet had refused to divulge: _Why did he kidnap the teenager?_

Electrical transmissions radiated between them. In the span of an astrosecond an incoming transmission from Optimus was quickly intercepted and read: _Follow my lead_.

"_Follow your lead"?_ Bulkhead wordlessly rumbled. Albeit puzzled by the cryptic comm., the green mech complied and confirmed his response over the private channel, but not before adding, _No offense, Boss 'Bot, but we're backed into a corner. He won't like the truth._

Over the line their Prime transmitted, _Your opinion has been noted, Bulkhead. And what pleases Agent Fowler is irrelevant. He simply requested to know what transpired, and I will dually tell him everything that I_ _know_.

To any mech untrained in the art of bullshitting, the statement would have sounded like surrender. It was their leader's particular phrasing, however, that brought a sneaking suspicion to the former Wrecker's processor. Noticing the misty, glazed tints to his comrades' optic lenses, they were holding similar discussion over the airwave.

Barely a klik of time lapsed by before Optimus regarded their liaison coolly. Lips creased into a thin line, the towering red-and-blue warrior answered, "I do not deny that Energon readings were detected by the ambulance that had abducted the human youth."

A fervent touch of incredulity and vindictiveness darkened Fowler's eyes. Tempting as it was to hoist the human by his checkered pajamas and throw him, Bulkhead refrained, duty-bound and interested to see what Prime had in mind. Normally he didn't mind the human's bold attitude, but as it was, Fowler's short temper had reached an even shorter fuse, and sleep deprivation was lending its own evil hand to the problem. "Then you admit that Ratchet is responsible?"

Behind Optimus the medic stiffened, optics narrowed to icy slivers. Were it not for Optimus' booming, _Say nothing, Ratchet_, across the main communications channel, Bulkhead would have gambled his servos that the orange-white mech was about to scald Fowler with every curse in the English language. (Not counting the thousands of other languages they had been required to learn before docking on Earth several years ago.)

Coolant pumped excitedly through Bulkhead's circuits when their Prime tipped his chin heavenward ever so slightly. One word escaped his vocals. One word that dramatically altered the course of their conversation.

"No."

Like a popped beach ball, the African American deflated, mouth falling open into a stupidly gaping O shape. For a heartbeat Fowler fumbled for an answer, struggling to find his voice. The little incredulous noises their liaison was stuttering nearly caused Bulkhead's poker face to dissolve. Near Fowler's temple a nerve twitched; gawking, at last he returned Optimus' look before repeating disbelievingly, "'No'? What do you mean, Prime?"

Over-annunciating each syllable with delicate care, the Autobot leader tipped his head to the side before intoning, "You asked if my Chief Medical Officer was responsible for the aforementioned events in Jasper, to which I replied, 'No.' Meaning that Ratchet was not involved."

Optics glaring near-white in shock, Bulkhead mentally kicked himself to maintain his oblivious façade. Weakly, over a separate transmission he mumbled to his teammates, _I'm pretty sure my audios are glitching, but I could've sworn that I heard Optimus lie._

Two separate feedbacks came from his comrades. Bumblebee's was a series of staccato beeps, followed by a pixilated transmission. Upon sifting through the data file that the scout sent him, Bulkhead was amused to find the picture of a snowy owl, along with a caption that read _O rly?_ No doubt plucked from the bowels of the Internet.

Arcee's curt, if not somewhat hesitant reply was far more fitting: _Hell just froze over_.

There was something to be said for their leader speaking to the human as if he were an uncomprehending child, given his answer to Fowler's next blustered demand: "B-But, you said—"

"—that the Cybertronian involved in the ordeal had scanned an ambulance for his alternate mode, and no doubt had abducted the child for personal motives. In no way did I concur with your earlier assessment, that this was Ratchet's doing." On the outside, their unflinching leader didn't stir, cables taut and expression revealing nothing. But physical appearances were only a dependency for organic creatures to gauge emotions. Built to translate electromagnetic signals, Cybertronians could rely on spark signatures and electronic signals alone to determine another 'Bot's feelings. And right now, the Prime's EM field was a chaotic vortex of guilt and self-directed aggravation. That innate honesty was suddenly being pitted against the falsehood Optimus had uttered, and—to Bulkhead—it looked as if their esteemed leader wanted to do nothing more than huddle in a corner and cry.

Exaggeration, of course, but the same gist no matter how he phrased it.

To himself the ex-Wrecker chuckled, _Who knew Prime was the robotic version of Pinocchio?_

Then Optimus proceeded in a smooth voice that contradicted every rebelling diode in his body: "It would be a bit presumptuous on your part to accuse my medic for a crime he did not commit."

First a modicum, then a tidal wave, of disbelief came swinging back full force. Throwing back his head in a mirthless chuckle, Fowler regarded the twenty-eight foot mech angrily. "Oh, yeah? According to you guys, there aren't any other Cybertronians on Earth right now registered as search-and-rescue vehicles! So what am I supposed to believe? That another 'Bot that looks exactly like Ratchet"—here Fowler attempted to glare at said medic, who was still veiled by Optimus' frame—"decided to tear up the town?"

Uncertainty tingled beneath the metallic panels along Bulkhead's frame. At last they'd hit that little snag; the big guy could keep up at his little mind games with their liaison for hours, but without concrete proof, they were royally screwed.

This time it was impossible to stop his jaw from dropping when Optimus countered, "Forgive me for questioning the accuracy of the government's data, but I am afraid to tell you that you aren't as informed as you would like to believe."

Letting the message sink in for a heartbeat, Fowler blinked in an owlish fashion, unaware of Bulkhead hastily clamping his mouthplates shut. "Excuse me?" spluttered their liaison.

Still speaking seamlessly, the Autobot leader narrowed his optics by a fraction. "In your haste to 'jump the gun,' you disregarded the possibility that a Decepticon could have, in fact, taken the opportunity to scan a similar model of paramedic vehicle and 'tear up the town,' as you put it."

Giddy from such deliberate insubordination, he eagerly chimed to Arcee and Bumblebee, _Ha! I knew there was no way we were throwing in the towel!_

Equally as jubilant, Bumblebee reciprocated the burly mech's joy with nonverbal clicks. Although amusement flickered across the open comm. line between the trio, Arcee was quick to hush them.

Stunned, he blustered, _What gives?_ only to be sweetly chided seconds later by the femme: _I'm trying to record the conversation, and your talking is interfering_. Were Bulkhead not under orders to hold his tongue, he would have cast Arcee a wry smile. Instead the colossal front liner settled for a partially hidden eye-roll.

"A new 'Con, huh?" However softly the phrase was murmured, it carried with it a distinct threat. "Then what's his name?" Fowler challenged.

Fluid gushing through his hydraulics froze.

A passing spike in Optimus' EM field, accompanied by a vague stare, gave Bulkhead the impression that their leader was doing a really quick Google search. Static crackled in the red-and-blue Autobot's vocals, betraying his fib by a margin.

"Chop Shop," muttered Optimus at long last. "The Decepticon's designation is Chop Shop."

Override codes slammed into place as Bulkhead temporarily disabled his ability to physically howl with laughter. Otherwise he might have acted on the instinct and toppled to the tiled floor with an earthquake-par _thud_. Silently wheezing, he gasped across the airwave to his commanding officer, _"Chop Shop"?_

If the Prime heard him—which he no doubt did—then Optimus decided to ignore his scathing remark.

For once Bulkhead and Fowler were of a similar opinion, because the government official barked a laugh that was far too punctuated to be sincere. Crossing his arms across his button-down nightshirt, the African American scoffed, "_Right_. A 'Con dubbed himself after a motor vehicle shop that illegally dismantles cars and sells their parts." Mahogany irises shone with suppressed disparagement. "Are you seriously gonna try to sell me that?"

_Well_, Bulkhead cracked his alloy knuckles, _looks like our leader needs someone to bail him out_. Who better than himself to swoop in and save their Prime from a fate worse than deactivation?

Withholding a broad smirk, Bulkhead sauntered up to his leader with a gait that practically flaunted smugness. At his unburdened approach, Optimus and Ratchet simultaneous turned their helms to face him. While the broad-shoulder leader scrutinized him under a neutral pretense, Ratchet's glare spoke for itself: _What the frag are you doing?_

Almost casually the heavily-armored green mech propped his elbow against the railing, meanwhile leaning in dangerously close to Fowler. His circuitry nearly sang when apprehension flooded the agent's sunken face. Totally worth it.

"Listen, Fowler, I may not be the sharpest circuit in the bunch—"

"An understatement," growled Ratchet, faceplates furrowed.

"—but when I pick a fight, I try to make sure my opponents aren't six times my height. Or totting guns in every nook and cranny of their armor." A devious smile illuminated Bulkhead's jawline. "Ya know what I'm saying?"

"What Bulkhead _means_," Arcee stated from where she stood next to the yellow scout, "is that you should trust us. Thus far all of the Intel we've supplied has been accurate." Minute static impulses radiated from her chassis, evidence to the contradictory lie. "Why doubt us now?"

Gaze roving back and forth between the three Autobots, Fowler evidently made up his mind. In all of his pajama-clad glory the liaison whirled around, hands clenched into impossibly tight fists. With a loud exhale he began to pad toward the human-designated elevator. Pausing with his back to the collected Cybertronians, the dark-skinned man allowed a snort to be heard. "I am _so_ getting fired for this." Glancing over his broad shoulders, Fowler said in slow, considerate tones, "So, let me get this straight: A new Decepticon named 'Chop Shop' decided to kidnap a kid for no apparent reason whatsoever?"

High-pitched chirps vibrated from Bumblebee, interpreted by the steel-blue femme an astrosecond later. "That about sums it up."

"_Right_. You know what? I don't want to know what you Autobots do in your spare time." Flexing the muscles along his nape, Fowler readjusted his nightshirt in a primly fashion before stepping into the elevator shaft. Hazelnut eyes clashed with aquamarine optics. "You owe me, Optimus. I'm trusting you not to screw up."

"You need not worry, Agent Fowler. We shall have this threat looked into…and dealt with," murmured Optimus, never once redirecting his line of sight. At this point Bulkhead was seriously willing to gamble that his leader and their liaison were both ad-libbing. To the moss-green warrior, Fowler looked torn between throttling the Prime until he received a sincere answer and looking the other way in order to reclaim some much-needed sleep. For once Bulkhead could sympathize, and apparently so could Optimus, given their leader's drained exvent.

An emotion akin to exasperation and relief muddied the African American's gaze. Arms sagging, Fowler called in farewell, "I better not see any more TV broadcasts, or I'm going to bring in the cavalry. Just get this so-called 'Con before heads start to roll."

Amidst suffocating silence the electronic elevator doors closed on the shaft, bringing the argument to a curtain call. The metallic shuffle of pedes across the tiled floor filled the main room. Warily Bulkhead and Bumblebee swapped looks, neither mech sure whether or not Fowler had bought the fallacy or simply humored them.

With Fowler's departure came the unmistakable post-conversation Awkwardness, an emotion so displeasing that its very existence warranted proper punctuation. Thousands of questions were already at the forefront of his processor, begging for his attention, but the one thought Bulkhead indulged in very nearly earned him a dent on the helm: "Of all of the kick-ass 'Con names you could have chosen, you went with _Chop Shop_?"

Bolts along Optimus' spark casing clinked with the release of residual exhaustion. Spinal plating pressed against the balcony, the red-and-blue mech turned to face him. "Improvising has never been one of my better skills."

"Nor has it been one of _yours_," Ratchet snapped. In a whirl of armor the medic was bearing down on Bulkhead, stalking forward like a predatory organic animal, all inhibitions waylaid. "Is there any particular reason why you can't keep your vocals muted?"

Chest heaving with sardonic pleasure, Bulkhead drew himself up slightly. Unarmed without his wrench, the only weapon that he had to fear was the medic's temper. "Ha. You're one to talk! If you really want to start pointing fingers, then we ought get a score chart going for 'who screwed up the most this week.' For once you're in the lead, Doc."

Rather out of character for the white mech, Ratchet flung his servos across his chassis, hugging his arms to his frame in a bizarre gesture of pouting and indignation. Huffing pointedly, he combated, "Then I suppose we'll have to fix that, won't we?" Not another word spared the medic strode past, making for a hallway that would not doubt escort him to his quarters.

Halfheartedly, uneasily, Optimus called after his retreating silhouette, "Ratchet, where are you going?"

Twice now Optimus had asked that same exact question, and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu kicked in. Honestly, they should have learned their lesson about where that question lead: to trouble (that wasn't his own doing for a change). Without missing a beat the CMO hollered back, his voice echoing slightly off of the enclosed walls, "I suddenly find myself with all of this _free time_"—cue snarkiness—"and in need of a way to make amends. What's a mech to do?"

Curses rolled off under his breath as the broad-chested medic stormed out of sight, leaving Bulkhead in the company of his fellow soldiers and Prime. That turbulent and apprehensive stillness might have continued if Bumblebee hadn't chosen to chip in with a sequence of low whistles.

Mirth welled up in Bulkhead's audials at the scout's cheeky observation, to which he responded in kind:

"Yep. We're definitely burning in the Pit for this."

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Damn. This took forever to write. I had a heck of a writer's block plus a huge flux in school work. Because I doubt that I'll be able to individually respond to reviews from the previous chapters, I intend to address the bulk of those comments and questions here.

● **Facebook** — Obviously what Miko said was just an exaggeration. Still, there's plenty more photos to be taken, and they definitely have a purpose. You'll see…

● **Ms. Darby** — When this mom gets pissed, she can make Megatron look like a harmless kitten. You guys should start a betting pool to see who she interrogates. Of course, I already know who she hammers, but I'd still get a kick out of listening to the numerous scenarios that your clever minds can conjure up.

● **Miko** — I think that a shock collar or leash would work so much better. And honestly, sometimes she can annoy the _heck _out of me, but I still love that kid for all of her spunk and recklessness. (A leash would definitely make a juicy talking point for a fanfiction… Heh, heh.)

● **The Gift** — This mysterious artifact radiates with untapped power rivaling that of the Allspark's. Well, okay, not really, but I actually have a gift already selected, and I promise that you'll all be squealing and cooing when Ratchet gets it. It'll be so cute, you'll all vomit. Regardless, thanks for the wonderful idea, Amozon28!

● **Ratchet's Punishment** — I think an enforced medical leave is actually pretty appropriate, don't you? Besides, with all of that free time, think of the things he could do!

● **The Songs** — While I already mentioned the names of the songs at the beginning of "A Touch of Ratchet," I'll happily repost them: All American Rejects' _Gives You Hell_, The Police's _Every Breath You Take_, Blondie's _One Way or Another_, Voltaire's _When You're Evil_, and Lily Allen's _Fuck You Very Much_.

I also have an exciting announcement to make: there are an estimated eight fanfictions underway for _Transformers_! The only tantalizing little tidbits that I intend to reveal are the following: five of them are centered around the _Prime _continuity (two of which are sequals to _Beneath That Metal Exterior_), while the last three follow the Movieverse. I repeat, _Movieverse_, NOT BAYVERSE. I'll reveal more information once this fanfiction is complete. Until then, enjoy.

Attention _Twilight_ fans: Please don't maul me for dissin' glittery bloodsucking pedophiles. I just call it as I see it.

Up next…

_Chapter Nine: I Can Has Cheezburger?_

THANK YOU, READERS, FOR NOT ABANDONING THIS STORY._  
><em>


	10. I Can Has Cheezburger?

**Author's Note**: Ladies and gentlemen (and Silas), we have just hit the _triple digits_! Woo-hoo! Beer and high-grade all around! Let's get this party started! Of course, none of this could have been achieved without you wonderful, lovely readers and reviewers, so I would like to take a moment to thank the Internet for its immense contribution to my fanfic!

44,602 words; 9 chapters; 104 reviews; 9,686 hits; 58 favorites; and 55 alerts.

This is what your encouragement and support has created, and for once, I'm at a loss for words. The gratitude is overwhelming.

I also owe everyone here a thank you for being so patient. I don't have any excuses for the update lag other than school generating more homework than should be legal. I can only keep thanking everyone reading this story for such patience. I know the feeling, so I sincerely appreciate how considerate all of you are being in regards to updates.

Well, well, the show must go on! And who am I to withhold?

There's a few references in this chapter to _Speed Metal_ and _Darkness Rising_.

**Disclaimer**: i can has copyrights? kkthnxbai

**Warnings**: lol xD

**Rating**: T plz

**Summary**: the references its over 9000!

* * *

><p><strong>EDIT<strong>: Since I am notorious for not specifying the time, it's currently 12:00 pm, eight hours after the previous chapter.

* * *

><p>Chapter Nine: <strong>I Can Has Cheezburger?<strong>

"Are you okay, 'Bee? You seem really tired…"

Said Camaro in question beeped in reply as it sluggishly plowed past a stop sign. Normally alert behind the wheel, Bumblebee was trudging the line with the minimum speed limit. If cars could slouch and drag their feet, the scout probably would have been in a half-conscious daze. His reflexes all but screamed _pull-me-over-and-use-a-breathalyzer-to-see-if-the-driver-isn't-incapacitated_.

Granted, Rafael knew that Bumblebee would sooner have his legs ripped off before he endangered him in any way. But the robotic being was inching along so languidly that the boy suspected that his guardian might pass out in the middle of the road. Not exactly a good thing, considering _he_ couldn't drive. Manually transporting the comatose Cybertronian would cause more than a few pedestrians to raise their eyebrows and wonder why a twelve-year-old was trying to push a sports car.

That scenario shoved aside, the bespectacled kid leaned closer and patted the steering wheel. "Did something happen last night?"

For a moment the yellow Autobot merely revved his engine in thought. After a hesitant pause a series of clicks and whistles emanated from the radio.

Pensively Rafael nestled back into the leather seat, adjusting his glasses. Curiously he parroted, "Agent Fowler? What did he want at four a.m.?"

Silence siphoned out of the vehicle's transmission. By means of dodging the question, Bumblebee jerked to life and plowed down the gravel road. The abrupt movement only served to make Rafael suspicious, especially when a strain of Barenaked Ladies left the speakers.

"_I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve;  
>I have a history of losing my shirt."<em>

Maybe it was a habit evolved from synchronizing with Earth's satellites, but when Bumblebee was reluctant to discuss something, the bright gold scout would substitute regular speech with verses from various songs. One of the many perks of being a twenty-foot alien robot was being one's own personal radio, equipped with infinite stations to choose from and technology that would make a DJ jealous. Why haul around speakers, amps, cables, mixers, and relays, when one could simply transform into the aforementioned equipment?

Bracing himself, Rafael nudged his bandaged sling closer to his chest before assuming a straight posture. "Does this have something to do with Ratchet kidnapping Vince?"

The first bomb dropped.

The sound of a record scratch cut across _One Week_. Just as the brown-haired youth had predicted, his speculation shocked Bumblebee into consciousness. Out of shock the yellow scout slammed the gas pedal forward, nearly pressing the appendage through the cab floor as he sped a bone-rattling fifty-five miles per hour out of town. It took all of Rafael's efforts to not scream as his guardian swerved on the thankfully abandoned road. The screech and wail of rubber burning against the gravel made the twelve-year-old wince; his uninjured hand formed a death grip on the leather seat as the scout, in the span of six seconds, realigned his axels and slowed. With the end of rollercoaster ride Rafael slowly unclenched his fingers. His gasps were mimicked by the Camaro's guttural engine revs.

Neither broke the reprieve for a heartbeat; for Rafael, it was almost an instant replay of Bulkhead's reaction twenty-four hours ago. Steering wheel gyrating, Bumblebee inched the stick shift into drive and meticulously resumed his voyage. Nothing about his movements now indicated that he had suffered from sleep deprivation.

White noise grated out of the radio before a series of alarmingly fast beeps followed. A bit surprised by just how _panic stricken_ Bumblebee sounded, Rafael guiltily reassured his protector by running his palm over the dashboard. "Um...we sort of put two and two together."

If cars could sound chiding, then Bumblebee certainly did, if his hasty clicks and whistles were anything to go by. At safer speeds of twenty-eight the metallic extraterrestrial accelerated. Unlike before, the Autobot didn't try to hedge around the conversation. Although, Rafael mused to himself, his excuse was a bit drastic.

"'Chop Shop'?" the boy echoed. Shudders rattled through Bumblebee's seat, vibrating along Rafael's spine like a massage chair. Static in the vehicle's radio hitched like a tense breath—the essence of guilt. "'Bee, I know for a fact that there's no Decepticon named Chop Shop. It's not on the database—"

Electrical buzzes cut across Rafael. Of its own accord the rearview mirror adjusted to reflect the human's face in the glass. No longer squirming under his probing, the yellow-and-black mech was assaulting the boy under the full brunt of his stare.

The unbroken hand traveled to the back of Rafael's neck and massaged the skin there in a sheepish, awkward gesture. "I kind of...hacked your mainframe a few times when you guys were out on missions. Miko suggested it!" yelped the twelve-year-old in response to several stern chirps. "She said that we should test the strength of the firewalls. I mean, if a few teenage kids could hack into it, then imagine what the Decepticons could do. Not that they've managed to hack it yet, but you never know, right?"

Realizing that he was babbling, Rafael subsided, returning the free arm to his lap while the Cybertronian lapsed into uncomfortable silence. That bothered him; nearly always upbeat and social, Bumblebee's sudden clamming up was more than worrisome. Knobs and switches along the dashboard clicked, rotated, and swiveled in a manner akin to fidgeting. Cicada-like chirps trickled out of speakers and flooded the car's interior. Too inaudible to decipher, it almost sounded as if the Camaro was arguing with himself.

In an effort to glean some information, the twelve-year-old comfortably sank into the cushion and offered an inviting smile. Charming an answer out of Bumblebee had never been Rafael's style, but then again, neither had hijacking VLBA satellite dishes.

"Don't worry," the boy soothed, "you can tell me why."

A shrill static-laced scream escaped the radio, causing Rafael to nearly jump out of his own skin. Surprised by the firm accusation, Rafael blinked a few times before eyeing the dashboard with a tad incredulousness. Perhaps he had misheard.

"Um, 'Bee? I don't think Ratchet would actually rebuild you as a toaster—"

Needless to say, the sleek yellow vehicle waved aside his response and continued to panic. Two different scenarios occurred to the human, the first being that Bumblebee was overreacting. Second on his list of theories was the rather frightening consideration that Ratchet might have actually _done _something in the past to warrant such an accusation. For an eons-old autonomous extraterrestrial robot, it continued to amaze Rafael how much his metallic warden acted like a little kid dreading his shots. If the scout hadn't been conscious before, he certainly was now, trembling like a wet cat that had been unceremoniously dunked into a bathtub. Minute tremors lapsed through Bumblebee's frame, emitting a guttural rev that somehow seemed unsuited for the sleek purr of the Camaro's engines.

Desperate to redirect the Cybertronian into safer waters (and wheedle out an answer to his earlier question), he parted his lips. Another snarl of raw horsepower cut across Rafael's sentence. _That was...weird_, he mused. Having known the scout for a few months now, he could identify every click, every swoon, every beep, and every other possible noise Bumblebee had at his disposal. _That_ certainly wasn't one of them.

Suddenly, the car's frame was jostled.

Loud, strident blares from a nearby car horn had Rafael clambering toward the passenger's seat, holding his sling at an angle. In accordance with his unspoken request Bumblebee rolled down the window. What greeted them was Bulkhead's massive alt mode in all of its gun-toting glory. By means of tempting fate Miko leaned out the driver's side window, an impish grin spanning her jawbone to the point where it looked like it hurt. An index finger hiked up to her chin and she tapped it thoughtfully, running an appraising eye over the Camaro and its occupant.

"Hey, 'Bulk?" The exchange student hooked an arm out of the window and pounded into the hull on the door. "What'cha make of this scrap metal?"

"Dunno. It looks like a 'Bot, acts like a 'Bot, and sure as the Pit _sounds _like a 'Bot," the monster truck rumbled. Due to the vacated surrounding vicinity, Bulkhead had deemed it safe to broadcast his speakers outside the cab. With another growl from his pistons, the heavyset Cybertronian nudged his comrade in the side. Rafael had a second's warning to duck back as the black-green Autobot playfully scraped their paintjobs. Indignant squawks emanated from Bumblebee as the ex-Wrecker drawled on: "But it certainly doesn't drive like one. What do ya say? Want to run a few tests and confirm our theory?"

"All in the name of science, of course," purred Miko, the glee on her face more than contradictory with her statement. With another lighthearted smack to the glinting exterior, the teenager ducked back inside and stuck her tongue out at Rafael. At once a competitive growl left Bulkhead's chassis. Not needing further incentive, the massive vehicle's wheels gyrated, and at staggering speeds Bulkhead tore down the road. From the open panel in the truck's sunroof Miko could be heard whooping.

For several seconds both Rafael and Bumblebee sat in silence, the brown-haired boy staring ahead through the windshield while the Autobot revved thoughtfully—once, twice, before the Camaro produced a string of inquiring whistles.

Momentarily he considered the question, painstakingly resting his sling against his chest while weighing his options. In an un-Rafael moment of insanity, he made up his mind. "They did say they wanted to run a few _tests_," the twelve-year-old reasoned. A giddy smile bloomed across his face as he fastened the seatbelt all the more securely around his midriff. "How can we say no?"

Bumblebee didn't require any prompting. Engine purring with the enthusiasm of an overgrown kitten, the Camaro galloped down the road. Jagged rock formations appeared as nothing but brown and tan blurs out of the corner of his eye. The velocity at which they were driving—seventy miles per hour and gaining, according to the speedometer—was reducing the surroundings to a watercolor backdrop. Details impossible to distinguish, heat waves transforming the desert into a golden ocean of sand.

It was impossible _not _to grin at Miko's astonished expression as the duo seamlessly glided past, the scout meanwhile honking at the massive truck. As they cruised ahead he parted with a similar gesture of the tongue. Through the glass Miko gaped, rapped her knuckles on the steering wheel, and jabbed a finger toward their goal: the distant Autobot outpost. Just as the pigtailed girl rolled down the window to holler, "This isn't over yet!" Bulkhead added another notch. Dust and debris that had over time drifted onto the road was sent into a dust cloud from his tires. By the time Bumblebee had finished rolling down his windows the two Cybertronians were grill-to-grill, consuming all of the space on the narrow road.

An uncharacteristic feeling of competitiveness had Rafael trembling. Egged on by Miko's smirk, the twelve-year-old demanded, "Can you go any faster?"

The yellow vehicle released a hiss from his pistons reminiscent of a human snort, the universal gesture for, _Pfft_. _Watch this_. To demonstrate, the gas pedal sacrificed itself by plowing into the floor. Lights flared up along the dashboard as Bumblebee tapped into some well of reserve energy. All but breaking the sound barrier, he jettisoned forward in a whirlwind of dust that enshrouded their competition some ten yards behind them. Blasting out of his speakers was the finale to Rossini's _William Tell Overture_. Unable to help himself, Rafael bounced in his seat and laughed.

Many things could be said about Miko, but poor sportsmanship wasn't among them. Even mach speeds couldn't drown out the teenager when she wanted to be heard, like now, for example: "Hell, yeah! Now _this_ is testing! The education system can suck it!"

Five more minutes transgressed in which the two Cybertronians engaged in what could only be described as "extraterrestrial chicken." Purposely oblivious to the cast still hugging his arm and wrist, Rafael urged Bumblebee to speeds that skipped right on past the one hundred line. (He was amazed that the Camaro only had markers in the triple digits.) Their horseplay a few times had both vehicles' axles nearly belly up, but in the infamous words of Murphy's Law, "What could possibly go wrong?"

Much later Rafael would look back at this reckless abandonment of common sense, amongst other things, and wonder _What the heck was I thinking?_ Until then, Rafael kept cheering his guardian on in a race that they were going to win, if the smell of burning rubber was anything to go by.

Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins when Bumblebee charged into the stone-encased headquarters, Bulkhead nearly riding on his bumper. Simultaneously the two Autobots abused the brake pedals in an effort to stop.

That was how Rafael learned that the _one_, alien robot or not, they still had to obey the laws of physics, and _two_, it was easier to go from zero to sixty, not the other way around.

Grating noises similar to nails on a chalkboard filled the enclosed space as Bumblebee managed a series of nauseating spins. With his free hand Rafael cupped his mouth. Had they been in opposite positions, he certainly wouldn't want a smaller being to vomit on his insides, so the bespectacled kid did his best to subdue the reflex. Two seconds of death-defying spinning later and Bumblebee thankfully slowed to a stop. By some miraculous means the scout was still upright.

The same couldn't be said for their competitors.

Dizzy and disoriented, Rafael was barely conscious of Bumblebee popping open the driver's seat door or his endless demands to know if he was injured. Almost stumbling over his own feet, the twelve-year-old managed to mumble, "I'm ...okay," before he toppled out of the Camaro. Clicks and shuffles from the realignment of gears and hydraulics came from behind. Cheek against the cold metallic floor, he blinked, aware of the fact that his fractured wrist was fine yet seemingly unsurprised by it. No, what had him gaping were his friends not even twelve feet away.

In his efforts to revert to a legal speeds Bulkhead had managed to flip onto his backside. From his supine position all four tires continued to spin aimlessly. Superficial dents marred the warrior's dark green exterior. Both doors were flung wide open, which from one Miko was currently hanging out of upside down. The airbag in the driver's seat could be seen inflated through the open door.

Upon making eye contact with the Japanese exchange student Rafael's world ceased spinning in sets of triplets. As his vision reverted to normal the sudden appearance of three Jack Darbys morphed back into one teenager pulling a face. Without protest Rafael was gingerly lifted to his feet by a pair of metallic fingers pinching his shirt collar. In the background Miko was receiving the same tender treatment from a frowning Arcee. Ignored for the time being, the monster truck continued to rock in subtle side-to-side motions like a lame turtle.

_Ironic that one of the galaxy's deadliest fighters can be crippled just by being flipped onto his back_, Rafael groggily noted.

Swaying slightly, Miko staggered toward the two boys and slumped against Jack's shoulder. "Let's go again..."

"The guy who invented the seatbelt needs to be given a sainthood," grumbled Jack. Carefully he extracted Miko's cheerful visage from his personal space, earning an incoherent garble of noise from the girl when her chinrest was taken away. Warm air gusted over the back of Rafael's neck; not needing to look back to identify the encroacher, affectionately he bent his arm backward until he came into contact with Bumblebee's facial vents. Concerned whistles whooshed over his mop of hair like a physical force.

"Don't worry," he soothed the crouching Cybertronian, "it's not your fault—"

"Oh, it is entirely your fault!" Abruptly the overshadowing presence of his guardian was gone. A rearview glance showed Bumblebee backpedaling in Bulkhead's direction. Woe to the former Wrecker, he had transformed in hopes that it would fix his dilemma. Sadly, the laws of gravity still applied, so now in the truck's stead was a flailing Autobot. Miko looked torn between laughter and fear on Bulkhead's behalf as Arcee prowled forward with the predatory discipline of a lioness. In a display of un-soldierly behavior the yellow scout swung himself legs-first over Bulkhead and cowered behind his larger comrade.

Heated steam gushed from the femme's vents. Seething, the sapphire Autobot loomed over her brothers-in-arms and growled. Both mechs recognized a rant coming at the same time that the human trio did. The downside was that, unlike the kids, they couldn't duck and run for cover. Inwardly, Rafael pitied his friends, and felt partially guiltily because it had been his and Miko's encouragement that had spurred them the greater heights. However, being only a fraction of Arcee's height, the twelve-year-old knew when to acknowledge a lost cause.

In a foreboding gesture Arcee reared back her right leg, giving ample warning. At once Bumblebee scuttled backward from ground zero, leaving a defenseless Bulkhead to Arcee's wrath. After all, chivalry had been dead for centuries, and the scout wasn't about to start changing things.

"Do either of you"—_kick_—"have any idea"—_punt_—"how much danger"—_whack_—"you put the kids in?" Either her pede was starting to feel the effects or Arcee decided that Bulkhead had suffered enough physical punishment. Regardless of reason, the slender warrior retreated her foot, but in no way had she finished: "Now, either you tell me how one hundred and twenty miles per hour constitutes as 'safe,' or I'm going to kick your afts to Praxus and back!"

Rafael's puzzlement over the unfamiliar name was swept away by the two mechs at her mercy. Jack and Miko exchanged contrasting looks of _we should probably do something_ and _hey, quality entertainment with front row seats_.

Thank every god both human and alien that Jack won out.

"Hey, Arcee?" Tentatively the tall, black-haired youth approached his partner. With a sharp swing of her helm Jack found himself the new target of Arcee's brunt. Beneath the flinty glow of the femme's azure optics, Jack fidgeted. "Look, no one got hurt, and don't get me wrong, I'm not endorsing street racing"—_We all know where that went_, Rafael recalled—"but no harm, no foul, right? I mean, I'm sure they learned their lesson. Right, guys?"

"Yeah!"

"Totally!"

"Never gonna happen again!"

Three hasty confirmations plus a strident beep answered him. Unfortunately, Arcee didn't think it was good enough.

Arms crossed over her chassis, the streamline warrior sniffed, "They'll have learned their lesson when I say they've learned it."

_We need a distraction_. Hastily Rafael roved his gaze about the metal-and-mineral base, searching for any source of inspiration, however desperate. What caught his eye wasn't actually in the hanger, but rather, its absence was. _If that even makes any sense_. "Where's Ratchet?"

For whatever the reason, his words resounded like a death knell for the three present Autobots. All three tensed up at the name of their ill-tempered medic. The silence fleetingly jarred their conversation, short enough to be dismissed but noticeable enough to cause all three humans to exchange dubious looks.

Trills and dismissive clicks sounded from Bumblebee. Bulkhead translated: "He's still in his 'piss off and go frag yourself' phase, so he's probably holed up in his quarters. Unless ya got a death wish, avoid at all costs."

Call it stupidity or _wrong place, wrong time_, Jack felt the need to make an observation: "I know that you guys are an advanced race of robotic beings, but wow, really? Ratchet's worse than a hormonal teenage girl."

Open mouth, insert foot.

Unsurprisingly, Miko demonstrated her feelings toward that particular analogy by slugging him in the shoulder. Crying out in startled pain, Jack jumped out of arm's reach and rubbed the forming bruise. "What was that for?" he protested.

"'Worse than a hormonal teenage girl'?" quoted Miko, undisguised disgust thickening her tone. The distraction seemed to play its part, as Arcee's tirade was put on hold. All three Cybertronians watched their charges arguing with no small amount of good humor (minus a certain femme's scowling faceplates). "Honestly," huffed Miko as she threw her hands into the air, "trust a boy to be so pigheaded."

In the midst of his friends' second nature banter, Rafael let his mind drift from the conversation. Like always, it returned to a topic that as of late had become equal parts enigma and discomfort.

Ratchet.

No matter how hard his subconscious tried to stray from the notion, Rafael was a kid of reason, and reason was difficult to ignore when it stared him in the face like a neon sign.

Logic always stuck to a line of solid, irremediable reasoning, and it was as followed:

Because he had received an assortment of slash marks along his legs and thighs from Vince's onslaught, they had bled through the pants he had chosen to adorn that particular day. Seventy-two hours since the second attack had given the bespectacled boy adequate time to overlook the wounds for himself. Several conclusions, mostly clinical, were drawn from his probing, but the one that effectively stuck with him most was neither clinical nor appropriate.

Bandages covered the gashes along his inner thighs.

Bandages that Ratchet had applied _with his own hands_.

After stringing together the two seemingly harmless observations, Rafael was left with an impression that he would have rather not considered.

In order to reach said injuries and heal them, Ratchet would have been required to undress him from the waist down. Granted, sentient robot beings probably weren't embarrassed by the idea of stripping humans down to their underwear, but that didn't mean that he wasn't.

He'd had a lot of time to think about it.

A lot.

Despite the fact Rafael he was a fairly mature kid, there was still that twelve-year-old part of his brain that went, _Eww!_

"—will be making sure Prime hears about your latest endeavors, and let me tell you right now, if I have my way, you're going to be under house arrest _just like Ratchet_."

Jerked out of his shudder-inducing thoughts, Rafael glanced up. At some point during his musing Arcee had resumed her lecture full throttle, once more hovering over a supine Bulkhead. Off to the side Bumblebee was shifting his pedes, trying to escape the danger zone. Just when the scout thought that Arcee had forgotten him, she would switch her caustic gaze to the yellow Cybertronian and halt his inch-by-inch retreat.

Bless Miko and her lack of mouth filters, she chose that second to interrupt: "You don't honestly think Optimus is gonna 'ground' them for racing, do you? Besides, that's not really an Autobot offense; not like kidnapping, anyway."

Then the second bomb dropped.

The way all three Cybertronians froze brought to mind the image of a wind-up toy running out of steam. With mixed reactions of surprise, suspicion, and amusement, the three humans watched Arcee turn ever-so-painfully to regard Miko. Forced sweetness abruptly replaced the venom she had been spitting at her teammates. Stepping into a kneel before the girl, Arcee inquired, vocals strained, "Where did you hear that?"

Deciding to contribute, Rafael rejoined, "Vince wasn't in school for his finals."

"No one's seen him since he went after Raf," observed Jack with a mild look. His words made Rafael inwardly wince.

"And Ms. Darby said that 'some teenage boy' was seen the same night Raf was attacked driving a hijacked ambulance." Grin firmly fixed in place, Miko took a skip toward the collective Cybertronians and positively beamed. "What a coincidence, don't you think?"

Somewhere amidst the vast and complex circuitry in the Autobots' frames was a panic button, and it had been pressed. Wasting no time, Bumblebee scampered to Bulkhead's aid and hauled him upright by the servo. The sapphire femme recoiled from the brown-haired boy as if menaced by a cobra, and likewise began to retreat. Rafael was opening his mouth to ask the one question he so dearly wanted an answer to—_Why?_—but was intercepted by Arcee's blustering: "Well, what do you know? We're needed for that Energon scouting mission. Time sure flies when you're having fun."

"Y-Yeah," stammered Bulkhead, backtracking several feet with each footstep. The role of reversal—the twenty-foot mechanical warrior running scared from the five foot, three inch human—might have entertained Rafael on a separate occasion, but they were so close to an answer. "Gotta go help Prime. Right now. No questions asked."

In a second of forgetful panic, Bumblebee chastised Bulkhead with a burst of disjointed beeps. Apparently the scout, in an attempt to communicate in secrecy, forgot that Rafael could understand his static: _Stop laying it on so thick!_

"Oh?" Poisoned honey brightened Miko's face, poorly masking the wicked triumph of a hunter that had just cornered its prey. "Well why don't we come wi—"

"_No!_" It was more of plea for mercy than it was an order. Three identical, horrorstruck faceplates latched onto the humans before Arcee began to form an excuse: "It's a transcontinental trip to an active volcano in Europe. Mount Etna. Highly dangerous. The geographic location is hazardous to your species—"

"People live in Sicily." Rafael, ever the authority on useless information, recalled the small island from a question on his Geography final nearly five days ago.

Still skirting toward the entrance tunnel, Arcee continued to list off alibis. She ignored the flaw in her excuse that he had so helpfully pointed out: "Sorry, Optimus' orders. Can't run the risk." In the background Bumblebee was activating the ground bridge while Bulkhead rocked on his pedes with anxious impatience (something that Rafael compared, in a rare fit of crude humor, to a three-year-old's _I have to potty right now_ dance). "We should be back in an hour. As soon as we finish tracing the signal."

"Yeah, uh-huh, let's just_ go_ already," snapped the colossal frontliner. Bulkhead at least had the courtesy to wait for Arcee to get her spoiler moving; Bumblebee hadn't even let the ground bridge finish booting up. Already transformed before the console was a yellow fifth-generation Chevrolet Camaro, sitting on the floor as though it were just another unintelligent car.

Following their comrade's example, a motorcycle and outdoor truck took the places of their bipedal counterparts. Engines revs ensued, and first the yellow sports car, then the bike charged through the electrical vortex as if their lives depended on it. Just as Bulkhead made to follow Miko bounded toward him, calling out, "Wait! Can I have my—"

Not even bothering to reply, he swung open the passenger's seat door and ejected what looked like a purple shopping bag. With athletic reflexes that had saved her on more than one occasion from Decepticons, Miko caught the garish carrier. A flash of bleach white light illuminated the cavern before the ground bridge transported Bulkhead.

"Well." Jack cleared his throat. "I guess this confirms our theory."

"Great deductive skills, Sherlock." Still holding her bag, Miko began to migrate in the familiar direction of the upper tier staircase. "The question is, why did he give Vince a whoop-assing?"

"One of life's greater mysteries, I suppose. Like the Tootsie Pop," Rafael chimed in, though by no means did he disguise his disappointment. Out of a newly developed habit he rubbed at the clothe affixed around his left arm. The twelve-year-old towed along, Jack matching his progress up the metal stairs to the human-designated area. Miko was hardly more than three steps ahead and stride faltering as she took to rifling through the contents of the plastic bag.

For the first time Jack warily regarded the purple intruder. Rafael could understand his apprehension, given Miko's fondness for mayhem. "So, what are you smuggling into Autobot HQ?"

"Ah," Miko simpered and withdrew from the opening, "it's for later, when the 'Bots are done looking for Energon." Jack simply rolled his eyes and bounded ahead, reaching the couch and TV before the others did.

A slither of worry jabbed at his subconscious when the other boy—backside still facing him and Miko—didn't move. "Jack?" Rafael questioned. "What's wrong?"

A glance over his shoulder showed Jack's jaw set and eyes glittering with too many emotions to name, most prevalent among them awe and shock. "Check this out."

With a smile that bordered dumbfounded, Jack stood aside for Miko and Rafael to partake in the gawking. Innocently resting atop the sofa cushions was his laptop.

Correction: what they were looking at _used_ to be his laptop. The technology that it had become had no name that Rafael could think of except one. Perfect.

Embedded into the back of the folded screen were the sleek contours and curves of the Autobot insignia. A shaking hand traced the engraving, beyond awed and seemingly at a loss for words. Not sure about what he was prepared to find, Rafael fumbled with the rim, grasped it, and flipped open the lid. Black fizzed to white in a single, precise glow as the screen blinked on. Palest neon blue pixels sprawled across the glass, reforming into his old desktop wallpaper—a picture of him, Jack, and Miko lounging on the same sofa not even an inch from Rafael's leg. Still gaping, the twelve-year-old sank into the cushion and clicked on the Start Menu. By the looks of it, most of his old documents had been salvaged from the broken RAM.

Habitually his fingers glided across the touch pad, sifting and culling through the laptop's system properties. While the programs were still human-designed, every transitional click was fluid and without any sort of loading icon. Wherever strings of programming graced the page, a similar line appeared underneath in black glyphs that were no doubt Cybertronian.

So immersed was he in his trance-like daze that Rafael hardly registered Jack and Miko occupying seats on either side at him. Three sets of unblinking eyes tracked the bespectacled boy's investigation into the upgraded hardware. While he knew that his friends didn't understand the coding and data involved in mechanical design, their appreciation was akin.

A choked knot coiled in his throat, gratitude so overwhelming that Rafael didn't know how to properly respond. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry_... Stubbornly he repeated the incantation, chanting it, in hopes that he wouldn't betray his emotions. The twelve-year-old didn't know what to make of the gleaming device settled across his lap. Not only did it suffice in replacing his broken laptop, but its flawless design gave Rafael a rather sudden impression of what sort of effort must have been involved in crafting it. Especially when the laptop—intended for _human_ usage—had been skillfully designed by much larger hands.

A long, appreciative whistle resounded from his right. From her perch atop the armrest, Miko had a decent view of the screen. The deliberate noise caused Rafael to jump out of his trance just as she scooted closer. Pleasant whitish-blue light bathed the exchange student's face and chest, giving her pink-blue attire a faded look.

"Wow," was all that Miko had to offer. Rafael and Jack were of similar speechlessness, because both boys could do nothing more than bob their heads in agreement. In a wordless gesture to see the laptop, Miko held out her hands. "This definitely has Ratchet written all over it, unless 'Bulk forgot to mention that he had mad computer skills."

Quietly the sixteen-year-old on Rafael's left snorted. "I don't think anyone _but_ Ratchet could have made..._this_." Aimlessly Jack waved a hand outward to reference the mechanical miracle now balanced in Miko's palms. "Did you see the exterior? It looks like silver, but people don't make computers out of precious metal."

"_People_ don't," corrected Miko without averting those cheeky irises from the screen. "But I'm pretty sure that giant robots do." Idly her digits tapped into the keyboard, producing a steady _tap tap tap_. "Weird; it's really lightweight, too. Are we even sure that this is metal?" she reasoned. "What do you think, Brain Boy?"

A small smile donned Rafael's twitching lips when she invoked the nickname. "It looks like a mineral-based compound," the brown-haired youth theorized. After a sideways glance at Miko's obscured face, he continued, "It might be a metal or alloy found only on Cybertron. Could explain its unusual qualities."

"Imagine if it's the same stuff as their armor," Miko piped up. Mirth brimmed in her brown eyes when she spared her companions a smirk. "Ratchet could be the poster boy for altruism if he used the metal from, say, his own leg."

Just at the same time Rafael uttered, "That's just creepy, Miko," Jack countered, "I didn't know you even knew what that word meant."

Reverting to her regular caricature, Miko drawled, "Everyone's a critic."

Arms shifted to cushion Jack's neck while the gangly teenager hooked a leg over his left kneecap. His brow arched a fraction when Rafael—spurred by a horrific _what-if_—jabbered, "You don't really think he'd get spare material from his body, do you?"

Laughter bubbled out of Jack. "Nah," he concluded, shrugging, "the Doc might be twenty kinds of crazy, but I'm pretty sure he didn't actually rip off his own skin. Or the equivalent of."

Still not satisfied with his friend's response, Rafael swiveled on the sofa to better address Jack: "Though if he did, where do you think he'd take the plating from?"

"Why?" By some impossible means the black-haired teenager's eyebrows were able to climb farther up his forehead. "You don't actually think he'd repair a laptop with his armor, do you?"

Not really sure whether to dismiss his paranoia or discuss the possibilities, he shrugged.

Today was one of those days where Jack decided to entertain the absurd scenario. Realistically speaking, it wasn't as bad as the other random nonsense they'd pondered over, worst among them the time Miko had asked Optimus, "Where do robot babies come from?"

Rafael still got the chills just thinking about it.

"Well, we certainly can't waltz up and ask him," stated Jack with his usual appeal to _logos_. "We'd be walking into a minefield. We could always try to get a good look at him and see if anything appears to be missing."

Now it was Rafael's turn to exercise his eyebrows. "How? By using a pair of binoculars? Because if we tried to get any closer we'd end up flatter than panca—"

"Damn it!"

Of all the things Miko liked to say, curses definitely ranked the Top Ten. Deep lines furrowed around her mouth as she scowled at the screen. While Rafael leaned inward Jack procured a seat on the back of the sofa. Against a blank webpage was a textbox inked with crimson red font. For whatever the reason the message was written in Cybertronian, but the bolded runes hardly required translating.

"Oh, _no_. He did _not_ just put a parental block on your new laptop. Like hell he did," growled Miko in what could only be described as self-righteous teenage indignity. Keys clicked as she mercilessly hammered into the keyboard. A small electrical ping sprung from the speakers before the textbox reappeared.

Quite frankly, Rafael wasn't sure whether he was more or amused or insulted by Ratchet's preemptive measures.

Jack, who had apparently adopted the title "Voice of Reason," felt it prudent to clarify the situation: "What," he inquired incredulously, "could you possibly be trying to look at that could warrant a parental block?"

Without missing a beat Miko chirped, "4chan."

"Forget I asked," Jack groaned, not sounding entirely surprised.

Wondering if the parental block was leftover coding due to a synchronization error, Rafael suggested, "Try using a different url address. Maybe it's just not working for that particular site."

Curiously Jack and Rafael crowded closer until Rafael was pressed snugly into Miko's flank. Jack, meanwhile, due to his proximity and position on the back of the sofa, had to dangle his long legs over the side in order to avoid kicking the girl in the face. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Miko obligingly typed in a new link: FanFiction . net. Once more a blank page and Cybertronian glyphs barred her access, much to Miko's chagrin.

_Guess it wasn't a poor wi-fi signal_, Rafael sighed, biting his lower lip thoughtfully.

To convey her irritation, the pigtailed teenager threw her hands into the air with a defeated growl. "That is _so_ not fair! He can't ban us from the Internet! We _invented_ it!"

"Though to be fair"—the manner in which Jack pursed his lips disagreed with his next words—"some of those sites are a bit…explicit."

"Please." Dismissively Miko waved his remark aside, nose in the air. Sparing the laptop an offended look, she transferred it to Rafael's possession, none too carefully at that. "Dude, I'm from Japan. I've been to the nine levels of Hell and seen the worst that mangas have to offer. You can't scare me."

Shaking his head with feigned exasperation, Jack chided, "The parental block says otherwise."

"The parental block _and_ Ratchet can go shove a stick up their—"

"I could always try to bypass the security code and hack it," Rafael offered. The brown-haired boy's effort to negate the conversation before it could escalate worked, as his friends bit back what they were about to say. "Besides, I'm sure he meant well."

Another sigh, far less annoyed than before. "Eh. Whatever." Muscles along her shoulders rolled as Miko leisurely stretched. "I wanted to show you guys some pictures, anyway." Swifter than the mortal eye could see, her hand was already fishing into a denim pocket and withdrawing a stunningly pink cell phone. Flipping the small device open, the teenager pressed several small buttons and arrow keys before an image lit up the glass. Two lithe, identical-looking felines occupied the frame. Thanks to poor lighting their pelt colors were impossible to discriminate, but it was obvious from the photograph that one of the cats had gotten itself wedged into a glass jar. In a wholly human display of pointing and laughing, the other kitten sat on its haunches and stared.

Jack snorted. "Wow. I can see the family resemblance. One sticks its nose where it doesn't belong while the other sits back and watches." A teasing grin flashed across his face.

"Jerk," Miko accused, but halfheartedly so. Another image of two cats climbing a marble staircase replaced its predecessor. "So, I wanted to submit a few lolcat captions, but I wasn't sure whether I wanted to do the picture of Chi Chi and Ding Dong getting a bath"—_click_—"the picture of them at the groomer's"—_click_—"or the time when—"

"Wait, go back one," Rafael interrupted, capitalizing on his request by pointing at the screen. He could have been mistaken, but one of the photos had looked distinctly like…

With a lighthearted chuckle, Miko complied, scrolling back to the last frame. Side-to-side with matching smirks were Bulkhead and Wheeljack. Behind the two ex-Wreckers was a cloud-covered backdrop, tinged lilac from the setting sun.

"Jackie," the exchange student recalled. Wistfulness and nostalgia colored her inflection. "Wonder how that one-mech army's doing?"

As Jack accepted the petite phone from Miko, he mused cheerfully, "Probably wasting any Decepticon unlucky enough to cross his path, if we know him."

That, however, was far from the reason Rafael had asked her to reshow the picture. Fractured light glinted off of his glasses as the boy cast Miko a hopeful glance. "Do you have any other pictures of the Autobots saved on your phone?"

"Well, yeah, a few dozen of them, along with butt-kicking shots of the 'Bots totally owning some Vehicons." Pure elation brightened her softened features. Upon receiving the tiny device from Jack, Miko skimmed through several programs before locating a digital file labeled "AUTOBOTS." In a seamless motion two sets of chestnut-toned irises were staring questioningly in Rafael's direction.

Unceremoniously Miko dropped the pink cell phone into the twelve-year-old's outstretched and trembling palms. "So"—an intent gleam made itself at home in her eyes—"what'cha thinkin'?"

"I'm thinking," Rafael quietly explained, never once straying from the photo album, "that your plans need to take a rain check. Until later, anyway."

"Ooh, really?" purred Miko, huddling closer. Already Jack had scooted to the point where the trio was pressed in an almost-suffocating fashion, legs, arms, sides, and shoulders brushing without a second thought. The bag she had deposited by the stairs five minutes ago was promptly abandoned. "What do you have in mind?"

Finally, the third bomb dropped.

All three humans found their eyes wandering toward the photo currently selected. Broad shoulders. White and orange metal. Antenna jutting from a spinal strut. Angular helm crest. R wave pattern sloping across each arm.

"Shopping," Rafael declared. "Lots and lots of shopping."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: On an unrelated and somewhat unhealthy note, I like to compare Arcee to Mrs. Weasley from time to time. Both like to debase stupidity and yell at those who display it.

Moving on...

Writing this was like pulling teeth, courtesy of a massive writer's block. Oh, well. I still managed to move the plot along, but I'm afraid that the writing might have sounded forced. Mind letting me know if this chapter was worth the wait? (If it did sound forced, then I'm so sorry.) Don't worry; the plot is going to start speeding up quickly with the next few updates. There's a Decepticon battle, of course; I mean, how can you not have a _Transformers _fanfic without some maiming and explosions?

Keep an eye on that bag of Miko's, and her cell phone. They're important.

By the way, was anyone else disappointed that Season 2 didn't air on its intended airdate, November 28? I mean, it's not as if I'm an impatient person, but c'mon! February? I'm going to have an aneurism from the holdout. Oh, Hasbro, you certainly know how to yank our chains.

For being such patient readers, I'm going to reward you with the name of the upcoming chapter:_ Chapter Ten: Dragon Lady_

Something funny that I wanted to mention: at certain points during the chapter I was listening to the _William Tell Overture Finale_. During that time I began to subconsciously type in sync with the music. Needless to say, I found my future motivator for getting things done on time.

Happy holidays.


	11. Dragon Lady

**Author's Note**: Remember when I said back in chapter two that there "wouldn't be any more melodramatics"? I lied.

Dang, time sure flies when you're getting ready for college. Sorry 'bout the ridiculously long wait; you guys deserve better. On a related note, my wish came true. For those of you who saw the TF: Prime episode _Operation Bumblebee: Part One_, rejoice with me! Ratchet actually gave Raf a drive home from school, and he offered to run his sirens in order to cheer him up. _Squee!_ I swear, there's gotta be lurkers on FF that work for Hasbro watching my fanfics and incorporating my ideas into their episodes. …I can dream, can't I? Don't mock me. :c Oh, and no matter what happens, I will never abandon this, or any of my other fics. Even if I don't update for months at a time, rest assured, they won't be left to sit and collect dust forever. Once again, thank you—readers and reviewers—for being so faithful with this story. We're approaching the end; just four more chapters to go. Huzzah! This story is now posted on my deviantART account, for those interested. Visit the bottom of our profile to find the link.

There are a few character references to the books _Exodus_ and _Exiles_.

**Disclaimer**: War might be hell, but disclaimers are a bitch.

**Warnings**: You might need some tissues…

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: _Round Two_ commences in Sir Screams-A-Lot versus the terrible, fire-breathing concerned parent. Meanwhile the search for the Holy Gift continues as our three young heroes and their noble metal steeds scour the kingdom. And in his castle, Lord Optimus contemplates whether or not he is out-of-style.

* * *

><p><strong>EDIT<strong>: Time to give the time in the story. It's 3:30 p.m., over three hours after the previous chapter.

* * *

><p>Chapter Ten: <strong>Dragon Lady<strong>

To say that Ratchet was bored would have been an understatement.

In fact, the medic was fairly certain that most human languages lacked the proper words to describe just how utterly _miserable_ he felt. (Which was a fairly normal feeling for him, if Bulkhead was to be believed.)

With a low-pitched growl the Autobot adjusted his grip on the screwdriver, raised his servo, and threw it. Like a torpedo the screwdriver whistled through the air, its sickle-sharp tip glinting as it sunk into the wooden board across the room. Impact consisted of a muffled, dull thud as the tool burrowed into the epicenter of the target, a series of black and white rings marked with the Cybertronian glyphs for _1_, _5_, _10_, _25_, _50_, and _100_.

Not even bothering to sit up and see if he had hit his target, Ratchet groped on the berth for another tool. Unhurried fingers flitted across the polymer surface before tightening around the nearest object. Without any real effort the orange-white mech flicked his wrist and sent a scalpel flying across his quarters. From his supine posture Ratchet heard the telltale _thunk_ of the tool making its mark. Rather than deign to see if he had hit the target or some other piece of furniture, however, Ratchet threw back his helm and glowered at the ceiling.

This was an all-time low, a testimony to just how hard he had hit rock bottom.

He was playing darts.

With the tools that Optimus hadn't confiscated.

Another thunderous snarl tore out of his vocalizer. Disgusted with himself for such a display, the medic moved his right arm toward the stockpile of tools next to his flank. In a forceful motion he shoved the remaining pliers, drill bits, scalpels, and screwdrivers off of his berth, creating a crescendo of clatters when they bounced onto the floor. As the scattered tools rolled across the ground, Ratchet forced himself to sit up, scrubbed at his faceplates, and sighed.

Unlike his comrades' quarters, the CMO's were fairly utilitarian, mostly crowded with work or unfinished projects that over time had migrated into his room. Anything personal was stored away, out of sight, leaving just a standard-sized berth, a workbench, and a shelf lined with half-completed devices.

The oversized dartboard mounted on his wall had been Bulkhead's idea of a joke. After being introduced to the human game, the ex-Wrecker and his charge had constructed a larger replica of a target. With what could only be described as a slag-eater's grin the two had given it to him as a gift for some ridiculous festivity called "Valentine's Day." The colossal frontliner had slapped Ratchet on the shoulder and insisted that the dartboard would "keep his aim from getting rusty." But both Autobots knew that it was in actuality just another attempt to bait the medic, rather than a sincere display of affection, as the holiday mandated. To add fuel to the proverbial fire, he couldn't dispose of it because Optimus—frag his sense of good humor—had endorsed their efforts to spite his existence. With an innocent smile, their Prime had suggested, "You should bring them along to help find a suitable place to hang it."

Thus, the dartboard was here to stay.

After a few months of being forced to look at it, it became less and less of an eyesore, to the point where Ratchet could enter his quarters without feeling the need to glare at it.

Tolerate it? Yes. Actually use it? Now _that _was a bit beyond the medic's range of foresight.

With another sigh Ratchet hunched his shoulders and drew up his knees before his chassis.

This was getting ridiculous. After two solid days of nothing to do, the medic was seriously contemplating mass murder. The lag in repairing and upgrading their base was grating on his nerves in ways that harassment never could. _Even the children's constant pestering is tolerable by compari_—

At the thought of the human younglings, his processor came to a grinding halt. More tumultuous sentiments assaulted the medic, causing him to shake his helm in attempts to rid himself of the thoughts. To no avail, Ratchet was left with the same nagging emotions that had been manifesting more and more as of late:

Humiliation. Frustration. Regret.

Of course, he was no stranger to said feelings. Associating them with the humans, however, was an entirely different cube of Energon. Over the course of the past four days the irksome emotions had made their presence known, magnified with each passing day since he had first scared off the red-haired scoundrel. Not exactly the 'Bot best equipped to cope with emotional distress, Ratchet had resorted to his favorite coping method.

Complete denial.

If he didn't have to look at the pesky brats, surely the strange feelings would be filed away in the back of his processor, happily forgotten.

Therein lay the problem. Confining himself to the barracks only worked for so long before he was bored to tears. (Not that his optics could actually produce tears.) Also, while the isolation physically separated him from the children, it did little to stop him from _remembering _that they were the reason why he'd barricaded himself in his room. Primus, he wasn't able to escape them even in his own damn head!

_What I wouldn't give for a strong dose of high-grade_, the Cybertronian lamented. Anything to drown out the sensations crowding at the forefront of his CPU. The Pit, he was even tempted to medicate himself, if only to last out the last few days of his "vacation." Unfortunately, all supplies at the moment were being negated to battle-related casualties. In the event of a fight against the Decepticons or MECH, their resources would be needed for repairs. "Happy meds"—as Bumblebee had dubbed them—were out of the question

In his halfhearted musings Ratchet considered brewing high-grade. Instantly the scientist inside of him jumped up and down, spouting out calculations. _If I recalibrate the pressure chamber in the refinery, then all I would have to do is modify the dispenser to_… For several kliks his neural circuits desperately attempted to abridge the long calculations into a condensed version that he could work with. Sadly, his skills were limited to medicinal, not engineering, and he was left grasping at nothing.

These were the days when he wished that Perceptor was still with their crew. Antisocial as the physicist might be, he specialized in coding and mechanics and would have easily compensated for Ratchet's so-so handiwork.

The idea of being forced to remain sober made him growl.

Whether it was the figurative straw that broke the camel's back, or boredom making him reckless, Ratchet pushed himself off of the berth. Pedes connected with the floor underfoot as the broad-shoulder mech stood. That was it. He couldn't keep avoiding the brats, and he certainly couldn't do it in his room. At least in the medbay he could lock himself in its storeroom and keep his servos occupied. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he wasn't above getting on his knees and begging Optimus to let him go back to work.

Acting before he could change his mind, he crossed his room in three long strides and palmed the keypad beside his door. Upon recognizing his unique signature, the lock _pinged_, and the paneled door slid into the wall. Optics narrowed, Ratchet peered cautiously around the doorframe.

Nothing.

A little more bravely than before, the orange-white Autobot advanced into the empty corridor with his proximity sensors on high alert. Dimmed blue optics roved over the floor space, double-checking the vacancy of the hall. When the scans along his HUD confirmed what a visual had already concluded, at last the medic relinquished his hesitation and proceeded.

Of course, Ratchet wasn't afraid of them. And any person stupid enough to suggest it would mysteriously disappear overnight. Instead, the recalcitrant Cybertronian found himself admitting, however reluctantly, that it was the impending conversation that he dreaded. There was not a doubt in his mind that the humans would pounce on him like piranha as soon as they smelled the blood in the water. Questions, demands, answers expected of him for his rash behavior. His decision to give a damn had resulted in their routine being thrown out the proverbial window—the routine in which Ratchet would berate, lecture, or curse at the kids while they ever-faithfully countered with their whining, teasing, or harassing.

After months of cultivating a steady relationship—or lack thereof—one impulsive action had thrown away the familiar. Now there was only…_this_; this whirlwind of disjointed feelings and anxiety of the unknown.

Worst of all was that Ratchet had no idea how to revert back to his usual aloof and distant self. Suddenly Jack, Miko, and Rafael knew that he had taken Vince for a joyride straight from the Inferno—knew that he had risked breaking protocol to get even on their behalf; knew that he had been punished for going out of his way; knew that he had set aside his "vacation time" to fix the broken laptop.

None of them understood why, and inevitably were going to ask him.

Problem was, Ratchet had no answer. Not because he wouldn't give it, but because he _couldn't_.

Out of habit born from experience he prowled down the hallways, not really bothering to focus on the walk so much as the destination. Most of the mech's attention was being diverted to keeping an optic out for the children. Last he had actually seen them was the night he had gone AWOL; since then, not a trace of the little pests. The Pit, they hadn't even been hovering around the sofa when Ratchet had ground bridged the others back to base over an hour ago. No doubt they had been off plotting in some remote corner, waiting to spring their Twenty Questions on him when he least expected it. Who knew where they were now—

_Skritch_.

On reflex he whirled around with his extension blades already protruding from his arms. Tensely Ratchet skimmed over the dark hallway, gaze darting back and forth to identify the source of the noise.

Astroseconds after he heard the noise several rats darted across the ground. Tiny feet pattered over the steel surface, creating a _skritch_-_skritch_-_skritch_ sound as their claws scraped against the hard material.

An optic twitched.

"Wretched vermin!" roared the medic. Through the air he slashed his blade in a wicked arc of metal and steel, showing just how pissed he felt. "One of these days I will litter this base with mousetraps and knit your fragging pelts into a welcome mat! You can set an example for what I do to those who get—on—my—nerves!"

The last four words were enunciated with as much venom as a copperhead's bite, but the rodents continued to dart obliviously into the shadows. Seething, Ratchet sheathed his weapons and stomped down the hall.

Some might have called it paranoia. He preferred the term "hyper vigilance."

Fine. Maybe he was blowing it out of proportions. That didn't mean he had to admit it.

At last the orange-white 'Bot rounded the final bend and peered into the central command center. From a glance the room appeared empty, yet vorns of being forced into dangerous scenarios had taught him that looks could be deceiving. Scans began to absorb in any data available—heat signatures, EM fields, organic composition, anything and everything his sensor grid could pick up.

Yet all of Ratchet's precautions were rendered moot when the unmistakable baritone of his leader reached his audios: "…think that you should look elsewhere. I highly doubt you would find anything suitable in a—what was it again?—ah, yes: a 'ToysRUs.'"

Perhaps it was the absurdity of the words that made him pause, all previous cautions aside. He ran a diagnostic on his audios. Maybe his CPU was finally starting to glitch from impact trauma.

It was only after a very long, very dumbstruck pause that it finally dawned on the medic that Optimus was using his comm. line. With Miko, of all people, leading Ratchet to surmise that she was off the perimeters with the other two children. Their absence might have attributed to the reason why his scans had come up negative for other Cybertronian readings, with the exception of Optimus'._ Well, that's one mystery solved_, Ratchet realized, a bit belatedly. Upon deciding that he didn't like being left out of the loop, he extended his own broadcast channel to synchronize with the other mech's radio frequency. What he didn't expect to find was a signal block so heavily encrypted that all he got was a mile-long wall of codes.

Taken aback by the barricade, he again homed in on the wireless signal and attempted to connect to the transmission.

_Access denied_, came the monotone response. Following that message was a polite request for a password.

That…wasn't normal. Under any other circumstance signal jammers were strictly prohibited due to their need to be able to contact each other at any given moment. It was part of protocol. So why, in the name of Primus, was he being blocked? While Ratchet had basic training in hacking communication frequencies, he was certainly no Jazz, and by the looks of the security files in place Optimus had gone through painstaking amounts of trouble to keep him out.

Why?

Realizing that what he was hearing he wasn't supposed to be privy to, the CMO ducked back into the hallway. Washing over his sound receptors was the heavy thunderclaps of their Prime's footfalls. When Ratchet dared to sneak a glance around the corner he caught a brief glimpse of Optimus pacing slowly. One servo was pressed against his ear finial to better amplify the communiqué.

As the broad-shouldered Cybertronian pressed his spinal plating firmly against the wall, he overheard Optimus answer whatever it was Miko had said. Judging from the content of the conversation, their topic seemed to be about human color trends. That on its own terms merited therapy sessions, and lots of them.

"…that doesn't even make any sense. How is purple the 'new black'?"

Were they seriously having this discussion?

"—but the pigment purple is derived from red and blue, whereas black is the absence of color. It is entirely different because it doesn't reflect light—"

Apparently they were.

You'd think Optimus was channeling Perceptor, by the way the two were going at it. At least part of his wish was granted; now he just needed Prime to shut up and build him a high-grade dispenser.

"Very well," Optimus conceded in what suspiciously sounded like a sigh. By the sounds of it he had given up on trying to understand the vast and complex social laws that dictated color trend, and had invoked the oldest of parenting tricks: if you agreed with the teenager, it would stop arguing about being right. "Why not purchase it in blue? According to the RYB subtractive color wheel founded by Isaac Newton, it is a primary color—"

Vocalizer dwindling into static, the Prime trailed off as Miko interrupted with a few short, dismissive words. For a heartbeat, nothing, until Optimus replied in a carefully neutral tone, "What do you mean, 'Blue is out of style'?" He hesitated, then suggested lightly, "Why not red?"

A pause. "'Red is dead'? I fail to see how a particular mindset renders a color socially unacceptable." Even as he addressed the communiqué Ratchet noticed a minute disturbance in the magnetic fields brushing against his own. A quick flare that practically oozed panic.

A sudden thought occurred to the medic.

Keeping his movements minimal, Ratchet stretched his backstruts far enough to peer around the corner.

Although Optimus was facing his direction, the red-and-blue Autobot was too fixated with examining his own armor to pay Ratchet's appearance much attention. Horror blossomed across their leader's normally composed expression as he lowered an arm and compared it to the blue on his hip. It was like watching a train wreck that Ratchet didn't know how to stop. A really, really hellish sort of train wreck, complete with jaw-dropping. Only when Optimus scratched a flake of red off of his arm did the ground suddenly feel a lot colder.

_Well I'll be damned. The Pit just froze over_.

Never, in the eons of being acquainted with the modest Prime, had Ratchet ever pegged him as self-conscious. Just to confirm his theory he did a double-take. Sure enough Optimus was speaking over the frequency again but was twisting his head to try and get a glance at the armor along his back. All because Miko—Miko, of all people!—had told that his color scheme _wasn't popular_. It was as if someone had switched the mech he knew and trusted and replaced him with a peacock. Or Knock Out. It was kinda hard to tell the difference some days.

The behavior lasted another klik before Optimus shook his helm, like a wet dog trying to dislodge water from its ears. With a final grimace at his paintjob he rumbled, "That sounds like an excellent idea. What would you like the engraving to say?"

It was as if someone had thrown a switch. Gone was his self conscious frown, replaced with a thin-lipped scowl. "_Absolutely not_. We are not desecrating it with that sort of language." A strained hiss of steam left Optimus' smokestack. "Where did you even learn those words…?"

"Bulkhead, I bet," muttered the CMO. Primus knew what else those three glitches were teaching the children.

"Miko." There was no mistaking that tone. A lecture was brewing. "Please place the nearest Autobot on the line. I would like to speak with one of them."

Another pause ensued. In the heavy stillness of the impending talk Ratchet could distinctly make out the metallic tap of Optimus' pede. Despite the talk-down being aimed at another of his comrades he still reflexively flinched. Generally speaking, it was a good idea to have a healthy fear of the guy who could easily turn them inside out.

Not even half a minute later he heard Optimus exhale oh-so-carefully. Probably trying to stop himself from leaving the base and shaking them by the neck until screws flew out. Ratchet found it hard to disagree, considering that they still needed as many cannon fodder as possible to throw at the Decepticons. Very softly, the Matrix-bearer ordered, "Arcee, I will only repeat this message once, so listen well: When I said to educate the children about our culture, I explicitly meant everything _but_ our profanities. Pass on the message to Bulkhead and Bumblebee. And _no_, learning human curses from the children, no matter _what_ language they're in, does not count as an 'equal trade.' Understood?"

Even through the heavy encryptions Ratchet could hear her sullen voice seep across the line. An affirmative noise followed before he heard Miko's obnoxious voice again.

"…agree. Next, we must consider the number that can be placed inside. Do we know how much space an equivalent size ratio will leave us with?" After a moment Optimus suggested, "Why not ask Jack? Perhaps he—"

As intriguing as this conversation was, Ratchet found his interest waning. Despite his curiosity, there was no telling when the others would be coming back. All the more reason to prep the altar and sacrifice the last shreds of his pride.

Just as Ratchet stepped into full view Optimus paced in the other direction. With a long-suffering sigh the medic braced himself. Tucking his dignity into some dark corner of his processor, he edged closer, a servo reaching out about to prod the other mech in the back and get his attention. Before he could act on the impulse the Prime spoke, and his outstretched hand froze: "You don't need to worry, Rafael. If anything, I am sure that Ratchet will appreciate the gesture—"

At that second Optimus chose to make an about-face in his pacing, bringing himself nearly chassis-to-chassis with Ratchet. Their chestplates bumped lightly together, creating an echoing clang. Optimus recoiled instantly as if stung, while the digit that had been pressed to his ear finial dropped to his side. Their locked gazes bore into each other, one taken aback by the nature of the conversation, the other panicking at being overheard. With a cocked optic ridge Ratchet folded his arms across his chassis and coughed pointedly. Protocol violated, conspiracies plotted with those brats: he couldn't wait to hear what the excuse was this time.

Optimus cleared his throat and let his gaze drop to the floor. "Um."

For a mech who had unlimited access to the knowledge of the universe, that was rather…anticlimactic.

Canting his helm to the side, Ratchet opened his mouth with all intentions to verbally (and physically) wrestle the truth from him. Frankly, he was getting tired of beating around the bush. At the very least, if the kids were intending to buy something and haul it back to base, he'd like to know beforehand how many injuries it was going to cause. You know, give him at least some time to prepare the medbay.

And just like that, the alarm system went off.

Immediately both Autobots swung their heads in the machine's direction. Instinct had Ratchet already padding across the room, side-stepping around Optimus and rapidly keying into the silo's alarm system. An image popped up across the panel. Outside cameras were quickly zoomed in on the rapidly-approaching object. Optic ridge furrowed, Ratchet quickly typed in the security code. The cameras adjusted their focus and homed in on the off-white automobile barreling toward the rock face.

"Nurse Darby," he sighed, and at once set the proximity alarms on standby. As the pings quieted to a dull hum he stretched out his back plates and sighed. "What do you suppose she wants this ti…"

Upon turning around, however, Ratchet found that the room was empty. All desire to grovel on his knees was promptly abandoned.

_You have _got_ to be kidding me._ Way for their leader to bail and leave him to be the door greeter. Oh, Optimus would certainly be regretting that come his next maintenance appointment.

Which now left him with the issue of dealing with _her_. Hm. Well, best get to work…

Roughly three minutes later he heard the car door slam, followed by the tap of the human's shoes. Not even bothering to greet her, Ratchet shifted slightly to the left to better get at the motherboard with his wrist drill. With his helm firmly tucked under the PC he could barely make out her white sneakers on the floor space beyond the console.

Yep. This was his great and glorious plan: the ostrich approach. Shove his head under the nearest machine and appear too busy to talk to her. Simply put, just because he was under orders not to work didn't mean that she knew about it. Granted, the floor wasn't too kind to his spinal struts, and while the spacing was inadequate, if it gave him an excuse to avoid the human then it was all fine and dandy, as far as he was concerned.

The shoes stopped moving and a long breath followed. Oh, goodie. Her patience was already worn thin, and given how well they normally got along, it looked like the fireworks would be starting early today.

"No, the children are not here. They're out with the others on some sort of errand. Optimus is more than likely in the back of the base"—_When_ he _should be the one having this conversation_—"and I'm currently repairing the terminal's motherboard. So sorry to disappoint. Good bye."

At least no one could accuse him of beating around the bush.

"What, no 'hi, how are you'?" Ms. Darby countered, though the friendly teasing in her voice sounded strained, as if she was barely holding back what she really wanted to say. Instead, her shoes scuffed the floor as she collected her thoughts. "I know where Jack and his friends are. In fact, he borrowed my credit card an hour ago because Miko said that they had to go on a 'life or death' shopping mission."

If his face wasn't hidden beneath the machinery, she would have been able to read the dark look on the medic's faceplates. "Is that so." While it didn't explain what he'd overheard earlier, Ratchet could now care less. "Well, then I suppose there's no need for me to show you the door. Have a nice day."

Still the human refused to budge. Her stance seemed to grow tense at the edge of his periphery. "Actually, I wanted to talk you."

"Need I remind you," he ground out, "that I'm not their babysitter? If you need to talk to someone about wiping their butts, then go bother my comrades. Otherwise, leave. I've had too many interruptions this week, and I'm sorely behind on my work."

Perhaps he was being a tad too blunt. He didn't care; anything to make the human go away at this point was fine by him. First the children, that wretched vandal, and then Fowler. His quota for human-Cybertronian interactions had been well exceeded, and nothing would have made the red-white mech happier than to make this one go the slag away. Never mind the fact that his temper was well beyond its breaking point.

Ringing silence followed his barbed comment. A heartbeat after he'd spoken June planted her soles more firmly against the metal underfoot and exhaled aloud. His optics briefly flickered to her legs as she shifted back and forth, clearly making a herculean effort to not yell.

"The thing is, I'm not here to talk to Arcee or any of the others because I know that they're doing their jobs. What I want to talk about is why _you—_the medic_—_let Rafael get hurt and neglected to tell me."

Ratchet froze.

In absence of his own witty retort Ms. Darby plowed on, her voice growing more dangerous by the second: "I know enough about bones at a glance to see that it's broken. Ulna or radius, I can't tell. Of course, I wouldn't _have _to make guesses if one of you had let me know that it was broken!" In his continued silence the woman snapped, "And slash marks! I caught a glance of several along his sleeves, not some accidental scratches from playing too rough. They're not shallow, either. I want an explanation, Ratchet, or so help me I'll visit my mechanic for a welding torch and shove it up your damn exhaust pipe!"

So much for pleasantries.

Gathering every ounce of patience he could scrounge for, the mech braced his servos against the console and slowly began to back out from underneath. As his helm cleared the underside he was brought directly eye-level with the red-faced human. Optics and irises met in a crackling exchange before Ratchet seamlessly rose to his pedes. Glacial blue lenses swept over her as the medic's drill retreated back beneath the armor around his wrist. Dusting his armor free of debris, he loomed a little closer and glared. Briefly he considered a dozen or so ways to avoid the talk, only to realize unhappily that if he said the wrong thing, she would go to Fowler.

If she told Fowler some outrageous story about the Autobots endangering civilians, Fowler would contact the United States government.

And if the U.S. government got involved…

Primus, he needed high-grade.

June continued glowering up at him. "I'm waiting."

In a guarded tone, Ratchet answered, "The…issue…that resulted in those injuries has been taken care of. There is no need for you to concern yourself over the matter."

"No need for—?" June spluttered, her voice choked up and thick with anger. In the second it took her to swallow her incredulity Ratchet began to realize what a futile battle he was fighting, though he certainly had no intentions of backing down. Not yet. Not while the toss-up was still between the truth and his pride. He actually had to force himself to not flinch as Ms. Darby yelled, "They're children!"

With his own irritation fueling him, the Cybertronian couldn't help but snap, "Really? I hadn't noticed."

The clenched hands at her sides balled into fists. "When I first found out about you, I only let Jack, Miko, and Raf stay because Arcee assured me that they were safe, despite the fact that only hours before I watched an eight-legged robot play cat-and-mouse with my son. Imagine how _petrified_ I was when I saw Rafael walk through my front door with his arm in a makeshift sling. Can you even begin to understand what a parent goes through when their _child_ gets hurt? In a war, at that! His parents don't even know that his life is endangered every day that he comes into contact with you, leaving me as the middle man! Not only did you let him get hurt, but you didn't bother to tell anyone!"

By the time she had finished her breaths were ragged and coming out in sharp exhales. Still Ratchet looked on unflinchingly. While her claim was a fair one, it was unrelated. And all things considered, it wasn't his job to report to her every time one of them got in a fight a school. Those issues weren't the sort of thing his business card entailed.

Curtly, despite the churning feeling in his tanks, Ratchet informed her, "I reiterate: his fracture was an unrelated incident. Why he didn't bother to tell an adult, only he knows."

_Lies_.

"If I'm not mistaken, there's something on this planet called medic-patient confidentiality. You of all people should have heard of it. Don't come to me looking for answers when all that I did was fix him up."

_Lies_.

"Are you kidding me?" she spat out. "You're not his doctor! And what do you know about human anatomy? You're not even human. If he gets hurt and you don't tell someone—"

"Then that obviously means everything is _fine_, Ms. Darby," the medic hissed back. "The problem is gone, like you should be. Now _leave_."

With the last vestige of resolve in his possession he viciously shoved his feelings away. A final parting glare was shot in June's direction before the orange-red Autobot whipped around and began to stalk across the hanger.

"That's it?" the woman yelled after him. "Is that really it? Jesus Christ, how can anyone stand you? You're heartless," she snarled.

Never once did his stride falter.

"How can you think it's okay to let them run after you into battles? They're like sheep being led to slaughter, and they'll never see it that way because the kids trust you to keep them safe. And yet you'd still brush it off if they got hurt in _your_ war. Do you even care if they die?"

Just like that, Ratchet stopped.

He wasn't sure what he was feeling. Too many emotions erupted like a geyser, all at once, blurring around the edges until he couldn't discern guilt from rage, regret from pain. It was too much. Too raw. When the mech tried to swallow, the cables in his throat seized, rendering the motion physically impossible.

In that instance, the only thing he knew was that the human was_ wrong_.

Lips twisted into a wordless snarl, the broad-shouldered mech turned on his heel. The action was slow, calculating, and with each step he took in his approach Ms. Darby shrunk back. All traces of righteous anger on her expression were substituted with an apprehensive timidity. It was in that brief span of time that the medic imagined she was experiencing what an animal must feel before a predator: absolute fear. The knowledge that she had gone too far.

Every sweep of his footsteps across the stone was designed to intimidate. Not a word was uttered as he sank on one knee to the floor, coldly gauging her as he craned. Their shared proximity allowed his facial vents to expel hot wafts of air over the woman, ruffling her hair with each ventilation. Neither moved for a solid minute as his ancient gaze bore into her skull.

"June," Ratchet growled. His vocalizer was serrated glass. Cutting. Painful. "You are a member of the medical community. Tell me: How many lives do you think you've lost under your direct care?"

The tables had turned. With a half-flustered, half-apprehensive look the raven-haired woman stammered, "I—I've never lost anyone—"

"Six thousand, three hundred and seventy-four." The statistic silenced her. "That is how many lives I have watched die directly under my own hands, not including Neutrals or races from other planets."

All possible retorts died on her lips as she stared at him. There was simply no response to that.

Digits curled and scraped against the floor, taking metal shavings with them. He bowed his head and kept complete and utter eye contact, never once blinking as he watched the human cringe. She had wanted his attention, and now she was going to have it.

"When I watch Jack, Miko, and Rafael skip into our headquarters every day, I dread the thought of our system's alarms going off. You cannot understand what the klaxon means for me. Whenever Miko hears it, it means another _Primus fragging photo shoot_. Jack hears the sound and runs after Arcee because he promoted himself to her de facto partner. Rafael hears our alarms go off and takes it upon himself to tamper with every piece of machinery within reach, because he believes that he is smart enough to help us."

A deadened look crossed the Cybertronian's features as he clenched his denta hard enough to make his jaw pang.

"For countless centuries I have watched Autobots rise to the call and prepare for battle. And whenever I hear that sound, I wonder how many more soldiers aren't going to return. I am only left with the burden of wondering how I'll ever be able to earn my comrades' forgiveness if I cannot save the ones who do come back."

Another heavy, constricted breath left Ratchet, causing his shoulders to tremble faintly.

"You can never imagine," he growled, "what it's like to have so much blood on your hands. Friends, allies, comrades—_dead_. All because I lacked the skills to save them." Softly, Ratchet breathed, "On your planet you have a creed called the Hippocratic Oath. _First: Do no harm_. A wonderful sentiment to live by, if it wasn't for the fact that every day I break it."

For a moment Ms. Darby parted her mouth in a clear attempt to speak. One frigid glance stopped her.

"There are many traits that I _despise _about your species. What stands above them all is your frailty." Without any warning, charcoal-black fingertips reached out. The metallic digits gently glided over June's still arm, causing her exhales to hitch as he caressed up to her shirt sleeve. "Soft skin, covered in dead cells. Bones that can be snapped with just a slight squeeze of my hand." A single finger slid beneath the woman's chin, tilting her head back to meet his directly. Mere inches separated their faces, hers flushed. Each gasp caused her chest to rise and fall as she was forced to stare into his abyssal optics. "Necks, with nothing more than a spine stopping them from breaking at the throat. Unsharpened teeth, minimal speed, skulls crushed from the most delicate of blows. You aren't made of metal and steel. If I twisted off your arms, I wouldn't be able to put them back."

The contact continued as a single digit drifted down her chest, grazing the fabric until the metallic pad rested directly above her heart. Rhythmic pulses emanated from the organ and Ratchet relished the feel of life beneath his hands, if only because it meant that she wasn't another name on the deactivation record.

"Every time I watch the children come here I am forcibly reminded of those traits. Their involvement in this war means inevitable casualty. I thank Primus every day when I see them return from missions unscathed, and I curse Him the next when the children come back."

It was days like this that Ratchet was grateful he couldn't cry. And it was days like these that he wished he could.

Ever-so-slowly his hand retreated back to his side. In its wake Ms. Darby exhaled shakily, deflating, as she sank back on her heels. Immediate fury was swept away in place of the emotions that had been consuming him as of late. "You're right: I know nothing about human biology." He swallowed back a pained grunt. "My disdain for your kind has left a gap in my knowledge of human anatomy, and the more I try to deny it, the more I fear that there will come a day when I will pay the ultimate price for my inabilities. One day, one of them will get hurt. And I won't be able to save them. That was why I had Jack and Miko help direct me in healing Rafael the day he was attacked at school, shortly after I brought him back here."

Understanding dawned on Ms. Darby's face. "The incident with the kid and the ambulance…that was _you?_"

His optics narrowed. "One of the few things I could do right in protecting him," the mech admitted in a tone brimming with self-loathing. "If being the 'big, scary, human-hating robot' is what it takes to keep them away, then I will gladly continue to be that mech. If making the kids hate me and the thought of coming here are what stop them from getting killed, then I will do as such." A long, excruciating blink followed. "I cannot bear the thought of them dying in this war. So _never_," he snarled into her face, "assume that you're the only one here who knows what could happen if mistakes are made, because I've been living those mistakes for more eons that you could ever begin to imagine!"

Unable to continue looking at the creature who bore such striking resemblance to Jack, Ratchet swung his helm to the side and shuttered his optics. Anguished silence rang around the outpost, echoing with the last traces of his roar. Suddenly, he craved the high-grade, but not as an entertainment for the boredom. What Ratchet longed for was an escape into a drunken haze, to bury himself away from the guilt and maudlin thoughts he had fought for centuries. Escape from the humans that had walked into his life and reminded him of the thousands of ways they could die, and the one way he would always fail to save them.

Just as he considered asking her to leave again, something warm pressed against the back of his hand. Startled, the red-and-white 'Bot peered down to find Ms. Darby's palm resting over his servo. Softened watery eyes studied him as she continued to soothingly stroke across his knuckles.

"You're right," murmured June. All the while her hand continued its delicate ministrations. "I can't understand what you've been through, and I doubt I ever will. I'm sorry for what I said to you. I shouldn't"—her voice jarred fleetingly—"I shouldn't have made such immediate assumptions. Though I never would have thought…"

_What? That I'm tired of watching the body count rise? _

"…that of all the Autobots here, you would be the best one qualified at keeping them safe."

"What?" Confusion washed away his previous thoughts. "Are you deaf? Did you not just here what I told you? I. Can't. Fix. Them."

"No," June conceded, pulling back as she spoke. Calmly she ignored his seething to offer him a faint smile. "But healing isn't always about the physical. Sometimes, you have to heal the emotional wounds too."

Unable to find a reply to that, he continued to gaze silently down at the smaller creature.

While Ms. Darby began to return to her car, she called back over her shoulder, "I think I've overstayed my welcome—not that there was any to begin with." A teasing, if not sheepish glint entered her eyes. "Anyway," the nurse continued, "I need to get back home. Bills to pay, groceries to buy; you know how it is."

Actually, he didn't.

"Besides," the woman tacked on, "I came here to find out whether or not the kids were in danger. It turns out my theory was the farthest thing from the truth. Though I'm sure that you'd rather have the truth stay as it was: secret. So I'll keep it that way." Hands were on the car door handle, and soon enough she was swinging a leg inside, the car revving as she inserted the keys into the ignition. As the vehicle began to u-turn June rolled down the window and peered out. "Oh, and Ratchet?"

Uncertainly he nodded for her to speak.

A knowing look crossed her face. "They don't hate you—they love you." With that said the off-white car pulled out and drove away.

Five minutes after her departure Ratchet continued to stare at the tunnel.

It wasn't happiness he was feeling. To be honest, he wasn't sure what to call it. All that the medic was aware of was how much less the guilt, pain, and regret hurt. Like a weight being released from his shoulders, Ratchet felt the sensation of being able to truly breathe again. Suddenly, the children's presence in his base didn't fill him with as much dread as it once had.

It wasn't happiness he was feeling.

It was hope.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: To answer any questions in advance, yes, Perceptor and Jazz are canon characters. TF: Prime is part of the Aligned continuity, which includes the books _Exodus_ and _Exiles_, both of which they appear in. So ha. I win. And yeah, I know, technically _Operation Bumblebee: Part One_ confirmed that his alt mode was an Urbana 500. I don't care. He looks like a Camaro, so he's staying a Camaro. That, and I'm just too lazy to go back and make edits.

Jeez, this chapter was hard to write. I mean, I was all in the mood for getting this done, but even as I forced myself to type word after word, it just wouldn't click. This chapter was supposed to be done three months ago, but I kept redoing the middle and end segments because I just couldn't get it right. Even Sam, my "editor," said that it sucked. I'm still not overly satisfied with it, but hopefully I'll get my mojo back for the next chapter. Until then, bear with me.

Hey, **Chance O'Neal**, do you still think that Raf's gonna cosplay? Muwahaha. Nice try. Keep guessin'. ;)

Coming up next — _Chapter Eleven: Yes, It Can Get Worse_


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